Most Wanted! Harry Potter and Severus Snape
by Aarwen
Summary: Snape is shocked by what he finds when he fetches Harry from the Dursleys. As their understanding of each other grows, the Dark Lord makes his next moves in the war. Will the consequences be tragic? R for Angst,violence.
1. The Assignment

_Aside from the obvious debt to JKR, who owns the characters, I owe the inspiration of first person Snape to Cybele (who writes awesome fics). I'm afraid this begins with a well-worn plot bunny, but it was just the right place to start.....Will get more distinctive later on (or so I hope!)_

* * *

Inevitably, it was because of the Potter boy that my usefulness to the Order of the Phoenix ceased. I saved his life once too often. In the process, I attained the enviable position of Next Most Wanted on the Dark Lord's hit list. Treachery was one thing, and bad enough. Getting away with it for almost two decades was something else again.

So, I was rather surprised when Dumbledore invited me for tea to tell me he had a task for me.

After the usual pleasantries (which meant Dumbledore made small talk and I sneered), he finally got to the point. I choked back my incredulity behind a polite curl of the lip.

"Are you saying, Albus, that you wish me to collect Potter from his relatives?"

Dumbledore nodded, apparently pleased I had understood him correctly.

"Are you mad?" This was not the time to mince words.

"My dear Severus," Dumbledore replied soothingly. "I need someone who is a wizard, and someone Harry knows and can therefore trust. Lupin, Moody, Tonks, Kingsley, the Weasleys…they are all busy at the moment with other projects. I myself am about to depart elsewhere on business I cannot postpone…"

Dumbledore was wrong. I had not understood him correctly at all. "You want someone Potter trusts? And, therefore, you have decided to select _me_?"

Dumbledore smiled benignly. "Harry does not like you, Severus. That doesn't mean he doesn't trust you. At least, not since the last time you ended up at St Mungo's on his behalf."

This memory made me growl. Then I was reminded of the canine psychopath Black. That made me want to growl even more fiercely. I contented myself with baring my teeth.

"And are you not forgetting, Albus," I added tightly, "that Potter and myself together would be the Dark Lord's idea of gift-wrapped heaven?"

Dumbledore smiled apologetically, and chose to explain his twisted logic. "Well, you see, that means neither of you will be putting the other in any greater danger."

"_And_," I continued, "do you not keep nag – asking me to remain confined to Hogwarts?"

"Ah yes," Dumbledore replied gently. "But you insisted, Severus, that you did not wish to live in that way. You will be at no greater risk performing this duty than you already are every time you leave the school. Which is far too often, Severus, as I keep telling you…"

I scowled. Dumbledore did not appear to appreciate the vast difference between choosing, for my own pleasure, to take a trip to Hogsmeade or Diagon Alley – and stepping foot outside of my dungeons in order to do Potter a favour.

"What, Severus?" His eyes were twinkling in the way that always made me deeply suspicious. "You would risk your life for some fresh air beyond the Hogwarts grounds, but not in order to protect Harry?"

Now that was unfair. I had been risking my life to save that ungrateful brat for years. As Albus well knew.

It seemed, in the end, to have become something of a habit.

And thus, in the end, as Dumbledore knew perfectly well I would, I agreed I would go. The only bright spot was that Potter would hate the situation at least as much as I would. In this, I found some comfort. Tormenting Gryffindors – especially this one - was always so soothing.

* * *

Harry backed up against the wall, his heart pounding. 

This summer had been the worst ever. Uncle Vernon had only agreed to have him in the house on three conditions. Firstly, he had to hand over his wand. This in itself alarmed Harry very much. He was supposed to be safe here, but that hadn't stopped Dementors floating down Wisteria Walk last year, had it? Uncle Vernon, however, had prior experience of Harry's unruly temper. He had insisted.

Secondly, he was not allowed to bring Hedwig, and he was to forbid his friends to send him owls. As Uncle Vernon had bought a shotgun, Harry complied with this demand for the sake of the owls. Ron and Hermione had been very indignant, but grudgingly recognized that disobeying would only mean Harry had an even harder time of it than he would anyway.

Thirdly, he was not to leave the house, and he had to remain in his room at all times except when doing chores. As it happened, he was given so many chores to do, he was not in his room that much anyway. His hands were permanently sore and on the brink of bleeding from constant scrubbing and immersion in concentrated bleach.

Harry only stayed because Dumbledore had impressed on him very deeply the life-and-death importance of him remaining here for at least six weeks in order to finally seal the magical protection charm rooted in his mother's blood. Morever, he did realize that it would be insanely stupid of him to go anywhere without his wand. He had been reconsidering that decision, however, for the last couple of weeks.

Uncle Vernon had added up the information that there was a Ministry of Magic, a wizarding prison, stringent rules about underage magic, and that Harry's own use of magic had always been carefully monitored. He had concluded that wizards were bound by laws and penalties about what they could use their magic for, and that Harry's friends would not in fact be able to seriously harm him. This had caused him great delight.

Uncle Vernon also appeared to have clicked that once Harry was of age they wouldn't see him for dust. This meant it was his last chance to take out years of rage and loathing on him. He had started by encouraging Dudley to practise his boxing on Harry whenever Harry happened to pass him by. He had progressed to whacking Harry himself as punctuation to his commands and criticisms.

Harry was not scared of the Dursleys, but they were both a lot bigger than he was, and without his wand there was not much he could do except grit his teeth and take the abuse. This was particularly the case since he often felt dizzy with sheer hunger. That Harry just put up with their treatment inspired both Dudley and Uncle Vernon to greater heights of brutality. Aunt Petunia pretended nothing was happening, and had barely acknowledged that Harry was even in the house. This was partly why he was not fed properly. And Dudley made sure that any leftovers were inedible through judicious use of spit, washing up liquid, paraffin oil and other unpleasant substances.

So, when Uncle Vernon advanced on him, meaty fist raised, Harry pressed back against the wall. His face already bore the marks of previous punches, and he had great black bruises all over his ribs.

"Boy!" Uncle Vernon growled, eyes bulging. "I told you to clean the kitchen floor!"

"I did," Harry replied, looking his uncle in the eye. Having faced up to Voldemort on several occasions, he wasn't about to let the Dursleys terrify him. The Cruciatus curse was worse by far than what he was putting up with now. And it would be over soon: the six weeks were nearly up. Any day, he hoped, members of the Order of the Phoenix would be turning up to collect him.

"You missed a bit." Uncle Vernon's voice was malicious. Harry realized regretfully that having him to bash around had taught his uncle how much he actually enjoyed crossing that line to physical abuse – an impulse he had been keeping in check for the past sixteen years. Harry wondered if the problems at his uncle's firm had contributed to his descent into physical violence.

The punch was shattering. Harry's eyes glazed and his knees collapsed beneath him. He fell to the floor. His glasses, which Hermione had luckily fortified with an Unbreakable Charm before leaving school, slipped off his face.

"STAND UP WHEN I AM TALKING TO YOU, BOY!" Uncle Vernon roared. Harry attempted, weakly, to get back to his feet. But his limbs would not obey him. Uncle Vernon kicked him, hard, in the ribs. And again. And again.

_Shit_, Harry thought dully. They broke that time.

The next time, his uncle's boot connected with his face. And then everything slid away.

When he dazedly returned to consciousness, he was in a painful heap somewhere cramped and dark. _The cupboard under the stairs_, he thought dismally. Presumably his uncle could not be bothered to drag him all the way upstairs to the bedrooms, so had just slung him in here out of the way.

Harry's hand was shaking. He thought he was probably concussed. But he managed to reach out a hand to the door and press against it. He fought back an urge to vomit when he moved.

The door was locked.

_Shit_, he thought again. Where, where, was the Order of the Phoenix? But then…his stomach lurched sickeningly…how could he possibly bear for any of his friends to see him in this state? He closed his eyes and groaned. It turned into incoherent whimpers before long as he drifted in and out of awareness.

* * *

What a disguisting neighbourhood. How drearily inane. That a wizard should emerge from this suburban Muggle hellhole was astonishing to me. 

In deference to Muggle fashions, I had changed my robes into a long black coat. Judging from the expressions of people I passed, my capacity to intimidate simply by existing had not diminished. This pleased me.

I gazed with incredulity at a front garden decorated with little china ornaments. I guessed they were meant to represent gnomes. How very peculiar, and how utterly tasteless.

So here I was. 4 Privet Drive. I wondered what to expect. For a long while, I had assumed Potter grew up with all the pampered luxury surely deemed fitting for the Child Saviour of the wizarding world. During our completely horrendous Occlumency lessons the previous year, I had learned that his home life may not have been entirely happy. This was some comfort. At least the Muggles who cared for him did not think Potter was beyond criticism and that normal rules did not, in his case, apply. A bit of teasing would do the boy no damage. The Headmaster indulged him shamefully. I smirked to think of Potter treated in just the same way as any other surly, irritating teenager. He probably hated it. But, oh, how he deserved it.

I knocked at the door. It was answered by a truly repulsive example of the Muggle species. The man was large and meaty, with bulging little eyes. He wore a walrus moustache which did not suit him in the least. Not, I reminded myself, that I was in any position to critique other people's hair fashions. I wore my own like defensive armour plating.

"Yes?" the man grunted. "If you're selling anything, I'm not ruddy buying."

I involuntarily took a step back. I could not bear him to be so near to me.

"I am here," I said in my chilliest voice, "to collect Potter. The Headmaster wishes him to spend the rest of the summer elsewhere."

"You're..you're one of them, then, are you..?"

The man's reaction was perplexing. He was backing away, and his face now seemed to alternate between red and a sallow white. While I normally do my best to incite fear and trembling, this reaction was a little over the top for someone who had never even met me.

I assumed by asking whether I was 'one of them', he meant a wizard. I did not trouble to answer. I merely raised a sardonic eyebrow. I was becoming impatient.

The man had now turned tail and was crashing down the hallway. I stepped into the house and closed the door behind me. No need to encourage nosy neighbours to watch this curious display. I was supposed to be attracting as little notice as possible.

"Mr Dursley?" I said, striding in the direction he had gone.

To my astonishment, he seemed to have run out of the house by the back door. As I stood in that sparkling, soulless kitchen, I heard a car engine firing. He was leaving. The Muggle was running away. Why?

And more to the point, where was Potter? Had he fled with that man? Why would he?

I walked through the rooms of the house. It was decorated in a frilly, chintzy way which made me feel slightly ill. There were endless photos of a fat boy who must surely be Dursley's son. None at all of Potter. I frowned. Had I come to the right house? Had the man simply run off in blind fear, having no idea who I was or what I might be here for?

I stepped back into the hallway, and decided to check upstairs.

"Potter?" I called, as I began to move towards the steps.

A few moments later, I heard a faint tapping. I looked around, creasing my brow in bafflement. I could see nowhere this noise might be coming from. Was there somebody else in the house after all?

I finally pinpointed the noise to a small door set under the stairs. I frowned. This was both odd and puzzling.

I approached the door with caution. What was in there?..Or....who....


	2. An Emotion Identified As Fury

Harry drifted back into consciousness. He had no idea for how long he had been stuck in the cupboard. He only knew that he hurt all over, and felt very sick. He could hear someone, presumably Uncle Vernon, moving around the house with unaccustomedly brisk strides. No sounds of anyone else. Aunt Petunia and Dudley had gone out for the day, and were not expected back until late. So that did not help him to pinpoint the time.

"Potter?"

Harry jumped. That had sounded remarkably like Snape. What would Snape be doing wandering around the Dursley household? Unless Dumbledore had sent him…Harry reached out a trembling hand, and attempted to bang on the door as hard as he could. This was not very hard. It turned out more like tapping. But he did succeed in making some sort of noise. He tried to shout that he was here, but found the sound coming out of his mouth made no sense.

* * *

I approached the door with caution. What was in there? ..Or…who…..

A strange groaning noise reached my ears. I froze. It had sounded like somebody trying to speak. My stomach clenched, and I could feel a sense of dread flowering inside. Surely, surely not….but I could not suppress the feeling that I would not like, at all, what I was about to find on the other side of this cupboard door.

I clutched my wand to be on the safe side and reached out my hand. The door was bolted. I drew the bolt back. The door opened outwards. I pulled it towards me.

He was there. Curled in a heap, blinking dazedly in the flood of light. Blood was crusted all over his face and hair. I could see bruising and swelling, both old and new.

An odd sensation swept through me. Despite the best efforts of my father, the Dark Lord and myself, I had not yet managed to completely obliterate all hint of human compassion in my character. I continue to work on it, of course. I particularly like practising on Gryffindors, whose shiny, hopeful honourable faces are an offence against the true nature of being.

Potter made another noise. I swallowed. Breathing had suddenly become painful.

"Potter," I said. My throat felt strangled. _Hell_. _How was I supposed to deal with this? _"Can you move?"

He tried. He fumbled towards me, out of the cupboard, on his hands and knees. He was shaking. He looked awful.

He threw up on my shoes.

_Oh, please_.

I identified what I was feeling as fury. Fury was all right. I allowed fury within my emotional repertoire.

I hated this boy collapsed and heaving at my feet. I hated him firstly because of his father, and then entirely on his own merits: our pint-sized celebrity, our little boy hero. The boy I had spent the last six years guarding. The boy for whom I continually risked my miserable existence. To find out information which would help protect this retching, battered boy, I had twitched and begged under the Cruciatus curse at the Dark Lord's feet.

I imagined my long fingers around Dursley's neck. I was taller than he. I would look down into his terrified, bulging eyes as I squeezed…and squeezed…

I sighed. This was not helping. I Vanished the thin vomit at my feet. I would have left it for the Muggles to clean up except I wanted it off my shoes.

"Potter." I tried to make my voice gentle. It did not come easily."We need to fetch your things. Where are they?"

He was trying to speak again. I decided that water might help. I fetched him a glass, and assisted him to sit up. I held the glass to his lips. I kept his head steady as he drank.

It seemed to help him. "Upstairs," he croaked. "Small room. Under floorboard."

Floorboard? Was the boy raving?

A thought occurred to me. I could not do much to heal him without my potions and my salves, for the healing charms had never been my field of speciality; I had selected quite different areas of expertise. However, I did know how to ease his pain, and how to take the edge off his nausea. I performed the spells. He seemed to benefit from them.

"Thank you," he said quietly. He had still not looked me in the face.

I left him there while I went to collect his belongings. There were not many of them, I realized, and not much to do. A trunk in the corner had been thoroughly locked up with Muggle padlocks and chains. I waved my wand and opened it. All his school things were there – exactly, I guessed, as they had been at the point he had left Hogwarts. Possibly I had been less than fair in the past for assuming his failure to study in the holidays was sheer laziness…

I recalled his comment about a floorboard. I located a loose one under the rug. There were a few pathetic possessions under there which he had presumably kept about him and hidden away. That damned parchment from Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs – the real identity of whom I knew all too well, thank you very much. A book on Quidditch. A photograph album.

I sucked in my breath. There were also some stale scraps of food. I could only think of one reason why the boy might want to carefully hide leftovers in his bedroom. That emotion swept through me again. The one I had already decided was fury.

I shoved the things in his trunk, except for the food, which I left. I hoped the Dursleys got rats. Lots of them. Preferably with plague-like diseases. I shrank the trunk, and stuck it in my pocket.

Potter had only moved a little when I returned to him. He had shifted to sit in a more comfortable position. I realized the vacancy in those green eyes was more than concussion. He had lost his glasses.

I found them for him at the foot of the stairs and returned them to his nose. He seemed truly grateful for that.

"Professor…" he whispered.

I arched an eyebrow.

"My wand..Uncle Vernon hid it…"

Oh. That was easily remedied. I performed a finding charm. It was hidden in a safe behind a picture. The safe was protected by all sorts of Muggle locks and alarm devices, but these were easily removed. The wand was there, and it was still in one piece.

I returned it to the boy, who looked relieved. And now… I debated my next move. I had Apparated to the nearest safe place in coming here, then walked to the house.. I had intended to escort the boy back to Hogwarts on the Knight Bus. Believe me, that was a concession made most reluctantly. I hated that thing and its pimply conductor. However, I somehow didn't think Potter was up to a journey on the Knight Bus. He would vomit before it had gone two yards. Probably, all over me.

I could think of only one thing to do. I would have to Apparate both of us to the gates of Hogwarts. It was very dangerous. It is hard enough not to leave your own body parts behind, let alone someone else's.

And…

"Potter," I said coldly. "I will need to Apparate us both out of here. For this, I will need physical contact. I assure you, it will be no more welcome to me than it is to you."

I reached for him.

* * *

Harry wondered what would have horrified Ron and Hermione the most: his battered state, or the fact that he was being carefully held in Snape's arms. In order for someone to successfully Apparate two people, it was necessary that they had full awareness of both bodies. His heart was held against Snape's heart. His head had been gently rested against Snape's shoulder. He had been crossly told to relax unless he wished his body parts to end up in four different counties. He had, obediently, forced his muscles to slacken. It was oddly comforting, he realized, to be held like this. After the weeks of physical and emotional abuse, it was reassuring to feel someone's calm breathing against your hair, their hands against your back, their heart against your own.

Harry blinked. This, he reminded himself was Snape. No longer evil Snape, since he had saved his life on so many occasions, but still, snarky, nasty, unfair Snape who made no secret of the fact that he loathed him.

Nevertheless, the Apparation would go wrong unless he went with it…so he leaned into Snape's embrace and enjoyed the unexpected sense of warmth and comfort it brought him.

Harry had never Apparated before. It was horrible. In his experience, this was true of most wizard forms of transportation except flying. Harry felt pieces of his bones and flesh dissolving, a sensation as if he had been turned inside out and then abruptly righted again, and then the next thing he knew he was staggering in Snape's arms at the gates of Hogwarts.

Snape released him as if he had been just dying to do so from the first moment of contact. Harry swayed, then collapsed painfully at his feet.

Just before he passed out, he realized he had vomited on Snape's shoes again.

_Oh. Damn…._


	3. In Snape's Chambers

Harry swayed, then collapsed painfully at Snape's feet.

Just before he passed out, he realized he had vomited on Snape's shoes again.

_Oh. Damn…._

* * *

I looked down. Yes, he had managed it again. I Vanished the vomit and decided I had never liked these shoes anyway. I would dispose of them.

I conjured a stretcher and lifted him into it. He was far lighter than he should have been. I also realized, from the murmured protest and involuntary flinch when my hand touched his side, that the boy had broken ribs.

Perhaps I should pay another visit to the Dursley household later, once they had returned home…it was a pleasant thought. My fingers curled vindictively.

The infirmary was empty. I recalled, with sinking heart, that Poppy Pomfrey was visiting her sister. I ignited the fire and stuck my head into it to see if Dumbledore was back in his office yet. He had damn well better be, a part of my brain was hissing. I couldn't see him in his office; perhaps he was in his private chambers. One of the portraits turned to look at me: a former headmistress, who looked just like Minerva McGonagall would in twenty years time.

"Ah, Professor Snape," she said. "Professor Dumbledore requested me to inform you that he will be away for some days. He asks if you would be so kind as to keep an eye on Harry Potter until he returns."

I cursed. No help from Dumbledore, then.

I considered my options. My teeth began to grind. I could not think of a single person who was currently in residence at Hogwarts. Even Hagrid was off somewhere in France with his hideous female counterpart.

I looked at Potter. He was still unconscious; I supposed Apparation was probably bad for head injuries.

Damn. He could not be left on his own, clearly. I was going to have to take him back to my own chambers. And care for him. The thought was terrifying. Although not as terrifying as the look on Dumbledore's face would be if I abandoned him to isolation in the hospital wing. The boy would probably die of his injuries just to spite me.

At least the house elves would still be here and could tend to his more personal needs.

Thank Merlin for small mercies.

* * *

Odd moments of awareness overtook Harry. Cool hands, stroking soothing lotions into his skin. Fevered heat. The sickening reeling of the world when he attempted to open his eyes. It was easier just to lie there in the darkness.

Except when the darkness rose to greet him wearing Voldemort's face. Or worse, Cedric's, with blank fish-like eyes: dead eyes, in a face that followed Harry however much he tried to turn away. Or worse even than that, Sirius' face, as he fell backwards through the Veil, laughing, laughing and dying all at once. Then Harry knew he was yelling, and tossing aside sweat-soaked covers. Cool hands, and a cool voice, calming him back to less troubled sleep. A sleep without the faces.

* * *

He was screaming again. I lay down my scroll in resignation. It seemed that every time I sat down, he would yell. Or it would be time to apply some of the healing creams. Or force a potion down his throat. Or brew said salves and potions, a delicate and time-consuming activity. I had barely slept in four days.

The cause of my exhaustion was flinging himself about in a way that would undo all my efforts to mend his battered body. At least this time he wasn't babbling inanely on and on about 'the faces'. Again, I touched my fingers to his brow. I murmured to him. Again, it seemed to quiet him. For a moment, his eyes flickered open. They were unseeing and transfixed by some horror that haunted his rest, which I could guess at all too well. Then he subsided into more settled sleep.

I wished I might do likewise.

I wondered what the wizarding world would think if they could see him. This was the Boy Who Lived. The one who had mysteriously thwarted and survived the Dark Lord on several occasions. The one they desperately hoped would work another miracle, and somehow see off the Dark Lord for good.

Sleeping, he looked simply young, and very thin. His skin, under the fading bruises, was almost translucent. He looked fragile. Vulnerable.

I preferred him this way. Unconscious, he did not plague me with his stupidity and his arrogance.

Even that solace was soon to be denied me, however.

The next time he surfaced from oblivion, those green eyes made the attempt to focus. His hand searched frantically, presumably for his wand. He looked wildly around with his short sighted peer.

"It's all right, Potter," I drawled. "No need to panic. You are back at Hogwarts."

He subsided slightly. I supposed, with his history, panic was a natural reaction to awaking somewhere dimly lit and unknown.

I walked over and gave him his glasses. He still looked both nervous and defiant, as if he might need to jump up and defend himself from me at any moment. This was distinctly irritating since I had been waiting hand and foot on the brat for days.

"Professor Snape." His voice rasped. "Wh- what am I doing here?"

"You have been ill for some days, Potter. Madam Pomfrey is on holiday, as are the other members of staff here at Hogwarts. Therefore, you have been recuperating in my chambers. You were not fit to be left alone."

Was I actually _justifying_ myself to the whelp?

"Oh." His brain was obviously struggling to process the information that he had spent the past several days in my care. I could hardly blame him for that. I was still struggling to come to terms with that knowledge myself.

"Er – "

"Yes, Potter?" I sighed. I had been right. Potter awake and recovering was going to be even more tedious than Potter practically in a coma.

"I need the bathroom," he blurted out.

I silently pointed him in the right direction and watched with professional interest as he tried to get up. There was no sign that his fading bruises still pained him. The ribs had been a little tricky, since I was no medi-wizard, but I appeared to have managed.

He was weak, of course. So I should have anticipated what followed. He stood, took one wobbling step, and crashed head first to the floor.

So there we were. Potter sprawled helpless at my feet yet again. At least this time he wasn't vomiting.

Isn't life just spiffing.

* * *

When lucidity first returned to Harry, after his days of unconsciousness and uneasy sleep, it brought with it confusion in equal measure. He did not understand where he was or how he had come to be there. In a reflex action, he groped for his wand. As he blinked anxiously around, he took in a blurry figure whom he knew instantly was Snape, just from the way he was standing.

Why was he in bed in a dungeon room with Snape?

Still puzzled and suspicious, Harry took his glasses from Snape's outstretched hand with a grateful murmur. For some reason, this stirred a memory he could not quite recall. He could not imagine why he was here, of all places, and Snape's explanation only increased his agitation. If he and Snape had been alone at Hogwarts, and he really had been sick all that time, that meant it must have been Snape who had looked after him. Snape. Looking. After. Him.

Harry also became aware that his bladder was full. How, in the past few days –

No: he really _couldn't_ think about that.

He stood up to cross the room to the door Snape had indicated, and realized more or less instantly that it had been a mistake. Awareness seemed to whoosh out of the bottom of his head, and he knew he was falling.

He didn't lose consciousness altogether, though. Through the grogginess, he was aware of Snape picking him up. He could also hear Snape muttering to himself. Phrases like "idiot boy" and "bloody typical" seemed to feature quite prominently.

"Perhaps you should try sitting quietly for a few moments before leaping across the room, Mr Potter." Snape advised him politely. "I would prefer it if you avoided getting another concussion. It rather spoils my vacation."

Harry grit his teeth. This was hell. Weak, ill, and left to Snape's tender mercies. He wondered bitterly where his friends were when he needed them. As so often, Snape appeared to read his mind.

"Don't panic, Mr Potter. This is not intended as a permanent arrangement. Now the Weasleys are back in London, I would already have deposited you at the Order Headquarters except you were too ill to travel. I can assure you," Snape's voice went silky, the way it usually did when he intended to be particularly insulting, "sending you on your way would be greatly to my preference."

Harry could relate to that. His head seemed to have settled into more normal patterns, though. Cautiously, he stood up. The room did not swing upside down and fall on his head this time. He took a tentative step: and nearly fell again. This time it was his knees that gave way.

Snape snapped out his arms and grabbed Harry before he could tumble to the floor again. This time the word "nuisance" could clearly be heard in his muttered complaints. Harry found himself supported across the room by Snape's surprisingly strong arms.

"I stop here, Potter," Snape snapped at the bathroom door. "If you can't manage, call the house elves. And try not to fall over, will you?"

Harry rested his arms on the bathroom sink and examined himself in the mirror. There were signs of bruising. He frowned. What…? He tried slowly to process his memories. He had been at the Dursleys. He had been having a horrible summer. That would probably explain at least some of the bruising, but…Next thing, here he was, embarrassing himself by fainting at Snape's feet. In his private chambers, no less.

By the time Harry was hauled back to bed by Snape, he felt too tired to press the issue. However, he really did want to fill in those gaps and find out what had happened to bring him here.

With _Snape_.

Harry sank back into sleep with incredulity still the dominant emotion in his brain.

* * *

I supposed it was mildly amusing to observe his horror and disgust at finding himself in this situation, with me. Really, yes, quite funny. I ignored the odd sensation which resembled disappointment. I had not expected appreciation, after all.

He really was too thin, however. I had become even more aware of this when I half-carried him back to bed. He had been skinny when he arrived; although I had since dosed him with innumerable sustaining potions, he still seemed wasted.

I requested the house elves to prepare food suitable for an invalid, and cast a charm on it to keep it hot and fresh for a few hours. I congratulated myself on my foresight, when next he awoke, for he was hungry. I would not allow him to eat too much, too fast however. I knew what the consequences of that might be, and I was rather attached to the comfortable slippers I wore around my own apartment.

When he had completed his meal, he ran a hand through his rumpled hair, and gave me a number of sidelong glances.

"Yes, Potter?" I decided I deserved the Order of Merlin on grounds of patience if nothing else: such as suffering the Dark Lord's displeasure to save the free world. "What is it?"

"What happened?" he asked. His face was heating, as if he were embarrassed by his lack of memory. He shifted uneasily in his chair.

Ah. Yes. What had happened. I presumed, however unpleasant his relatives may be, it could only cause him distress to find they had damn near murdered him. Given the secondary complications that had arisen, I had serious concerns that the Boy Who Lived, and saw off the Dark Lord, would have become the Boy Who Died, locked beaten and sick in a cupboard by his Muggle uncle.

My mood darkened. Those Muggles, I promised myself, would be dealt with. I could not say these had been the worst days of my life. I was after all a former Death Eater. However, I had certainly suffered considerably more trouble and anxiety than was acceptable to me. I could not, however, leave the Castle while shackled to my involuntary charge squirming on a chair in front of me.

He was still shooting me those nervous looks. I sighed, and took in a breath.

"Professor Dumbledore," I began, keeping my tone carefully chill, "asked me to collect you from your relatives.."

Ah. He knew where this was going. He clearly remembered that much, at least. His shoulders had tensed and he was staring fixedly at his hands. I continued.

"When I arrived, your uncle ran away, and I discovered you locked in a cupboard under the stairs. You had been beaten."

There. Now he knew. I stroked my chin with my long fingers. Was that…oh save me. The boy was crying. Entirely silently, with shaking shoulders, tears were pouring down his face as he slumped at my dinner table.

I was going to have a long conversation with Albus Dumbledore when he returned about just what kind of tasks I was prepared to undertake. Threat to my life and personal safety was considerably easier to deal with.


	4. Recuperating

Oh for heaven's sake, Harry thought to himself. Pull yourself together. It wasn't as if he didn't already know the Dursleys hated him. He strangled down the noise of his sobbing, but couldn't seem to stopper the tears which poured unrelentingly down his cheeks.

And the waves of emotion kept on pounding over him. There had to be something wrong with him. Other people were loved by their families. Not him. His real family had died when he was one year old, thanks to him. And then Sirius had died, also thanks to him. There had to be something fundamentally wrong with him.

He wasn't sure at what point words got muddled in with his silent sobbing. However, he suddenly realized that garbled phrases were emerging from his lips.

* * *

I closed my eyes briefly. This was just getting worse. Reluctantly, my mind translated the incoherent babble streaming from Potter's mouth. I would really have preferred not to know.

"What's wrong with me?" he was whispering in heartbroken tones. "What's wrong with me? It's all my fault…"

Anger shifted in my stomach. I swept to my feet and sat down fiercely in the chair opposite him.

"Shut up, Potter," I said sharply. "Shut up."

He wiped his eyes, and tried to still his sobs.

"S..s..sorry," he whispered thickly. His head was hanging and he refused to meet my gaze.

"Do _not_ apologize," I growled. "This was not your fault. This was never your fault." I directed my fiercest glare at him.

He stopped crying, from sheerest surprise I think.

"Wh..what? I would have thought you would say it was just what I deserved, the famous Mr Potter and all that."

I was now annoyed. "Don't be ridiculous, Potter. Whatever I think you deserve, it is not being half-killed by your revolting relatives."

"Why not?"

The simplicity of the question came close to stumping me.

"Why _not_? Well… all right, Potter. You tell me. What do you think you did to deserve it?"

Lovely: Severus Snape, former Death Eater, turns non-directive counsellor.

"I..dunno…only everyone I care for gets hurt or put in danger, or …killed…and maybe the Dursleys are right to resent having me in their lives…they never asked for me after all…"

"I dare say not. That does not justify what they did to you. And I can assure you , Potter, I am not prejudiced in your favour. I cannot count the number of times I have wished to strangle you. You will note, however, that I have managed to refrain." Darkly, I added, "…So far.."

He smiled then. He rubbed his eyes again, and finally did look at me from under his lashes.

"Thanks, Professor," he said.

Looking back, I wonder if that was the turning point. The directness of those green eyes, still bright with tears, disarmed me.

Disarmed, one is vulnerable.

If I had walked away at the outset, left him alone with his grief and his burdens, would things have turned out any differently?

It is too late now.

It hardly matters. For me, I suspect it has been too late in all the important ways for the whole of my life.

* * *

Harry blinked, and wondered why he didn't feel more appalled.

"So I do apologize, Mr Potter, for spoiling your holiday plans," Snape had said to him stiffly with a low-powered sneer. "I have consulted with the chief medi-witch at St Mungo's by Floo.. She considers it inadvisable to transport you magically at this time since you have recently suffered a head injury. You have already undergone one Apparation when you were not in fit condition. So I fear you must remain here for the time being."

"Oh. OK," Harry said. "And, er – sorry. I mean, I don't suppose this is how you wanted to spend your holidays either…"

Snape regarded him inscrutably. "Quite right, Potter. We will both just have to put up with it as best we can."

Harry paused. "And, er- "

Snape sighed heavily. "Yes, Mr Potter?"

"I can't just lie here all the time," Harry said in a rush. "While you're working, there's no-one else around to talk to, or play chess with, or anything…. Can't I help you in your Potions lab or something? I'll go mad just staring at the walls…"

Snape stared at him. His face dripped scorn. "You really think, Potter, that I want _your_ assistance in the precise and delicate work that I am currently undertaking?"

Harry was abashed. His face dropped. "I'm sorry. I just thought I could chop stuff up or something…you know, frog livers or something nice like that…"

Then he realized that the glint in Snape's eyes was actually amusement. "Here. Have an overall, Mr Potter. "

It was odd watching Snape engaged in his own researches. He muttered constantly to himself and kept having to put down whatever he was doing to make notes. Eventually Harry decided the most useful thing he could do was follow Snape around and write down what he was murmuring. Afterwards, Snape would examine his commentary as if it were a logical dilemma, and piece together from seemingly unconnected fragments of information tiny little steps forward in whatever puzzle he was attempting to solve. Harry wondered why Snape was so desperate to get the Defence Against the Dark Arts job when he was clearly so absorbed, and so brilliant, in the field of Potions.

After three days of this, Snape informed Harry that he was far too pale and needed to get out of the dungeons. ("Potter, you look like a sick hag. You are spoiling my appetite. Go and get some fresh air.") Harry wandered disconsolately in the grounds for a while, and then decided this was thoroughly boring. With a rush of joy, he recalled that his Firebolt would still be here in the broom shed, as he had not thought it remotely worthwhile to take it with him back to the Dursleys. It occurred to him that Snape would probably not approve: but Snape was still down in his dungeons, wasn't he?

Harry trotted happily to the broom shed and spoke the words of unlocking. He picked up his Firebolt with reverent hands and spent some time lost in admiration of its sleek lines. Then he dashed back outside. This would be so much more fun than mooching about on the lawns on his own. He wished Hagrid had not gone away for the summer.

He skidded to an abrupt halt when he realized that a dark-clad figure was looming menacingly in front of him.

"Potter," Snape snarled, eyes snapping. "Just what do you think you are doing?"

"Er…going for a spin on my broom?"

"Potter, do you recall what I said to you when I told you to go and get some fresh air?"

"Er..something about taking it easy, and sitting outside in the sun…"

"Yes, Potter. Precisely. Do you think whirling around on an international class broom qualifies as sedate activity?"

"No?" Harry looked hopeful, as if giving the right answer to this question might possibly assuage Snape's wrath.

Snape took a menacing step forward. He looked very tall, and the sun was behind him, casting his face in hooded shadow.

Involuntarily, Harry found that he had shyed away, and half-raised an arm to his face. Snape stopped. He looked shocked.

"Professor," Harry stuttered. "I'm sorry… I didn't mean…"

Snape narrowed his eyes at him and curled his lip.

Harry found himself unaccountably disappointed. He had thought he was actually learning to get along with Snape. But from the expression on Snape's face, the dearest wish of his heart was to hex Harry into next Christmas.


	5. Sudden Death

I recoiled, horrified. I had spoken words to him in anger, and moved towards him, and he had flinched. Harry Potter had flinched. 

My features fell into their familiar sneering lines, as was always the case when I was discomposed. I put it down to the shock: but I found myself prey to one of those irritating little spurts of compassion. It made itself known long enough that the words were out of my mouth before I realized it. Or could stop them.

"Never mind, Potter. You may go for a ride on your broom. On condition that I come with you to keep an eye on you. I expect this will, in the end, cause me less trouble than picking up the pieces afterwards."

"Really?" He looked pleased. "I didn't realize you rode.. I mean I know you referee Quidditch sometimes, but…"

"Use your brain, Potter. I am a wizard, which even an imbecile like you must have noticed. I fear you will find my broom is much inferior to yours, however. I am not, after all, considered by the ignorant masses to be a child genius at Quidditch." I gave him an especially nasty sneer. It was outrageous the way McGonagall indulged him so she could keep her celebrity Seeker on the Gryffindor team.

My Nimbus 2001, however, was still a rather decent broom. I looked at Potter speculatively. He certainly looked much better already for the expedition. His eyes were gleaming and a flush was in his cheeks.

"Sudden Death," I said abruptly.

"Sorry?"

"Sudden Death, Potter. Quidditch. We take it in turns as Chaser and Keeper. The first to score fifty points wins."

He laughed aloud at that. I wondered if I had gone insane. It was many years since I had played Quidditch. Or anything, really, except the occasional game of wizarding chess with a colleague. Still, in a universe where I could spend over a week alone in Potter's company without murdering him, I supposed anything was possible.

"Er. Professor?"

"_Yes_, Potter."

"How did you know I was here?"

"Did you really think," I drawled sardonically, "that I would not put alarm spells on everything remotely dangerous or tiring as soon as I realized I was going to have the –ah - _pleasure_ of your company while you recuperate?"

That silenced him, I noticed with satisfaction.

We took to the air. I was Keeping first. I couldn't believe I was actually doing this. However, the sun was bright, and there was something liberating about being nearly alone in the Hogwarts landscape. It was easy to forget how beautiful it was when you normally saw it infested with teenagers. I realized this was a school, and that I should expect the place to be alive with adolescents. Nevertheless, it still seemed to come as a nasty shock to me at the start of every school year.

I swooped in a vigilant figure of eight around the rings I was guarding. Harry was not, of course, accustomed to playing Chaser. Unsurprisingly, he followed the tactic I have always called to myself The Gryffindor Idiot. He simply accelerated towards me at excessively high speed and flung the Quaffle at one of the rings. No strategy. No finesse. No _subtlety_.

In any event, high quality keeping skills were not required. He missed.

I flew in my turn down towards the other end of the pitch. He was hovering in front of his goals, gazing intently at my every move. I suspected he would be a better Keeper than Chaser. He was good at catching snitches, after all, and a Quaffle is substantially larger. Still…I performed a complicated-looking manoeuvre with my body-language all suggesting that I was going to aim for the right ring. At the last minute I struck the Quaffle towards the left ring with my outstretched left arm, relying heavily on peripheral vision.

Harry dived to the right. Ha. Ten points to me, I thought smugly, as the Quaffle popped neatly through the left-hand ring.

* * *

Harry blinked thoughtfully. So, Snape did know how to play Quidditch. He hadn't even been looking at the ring he had scored through. Harry flew in lazy circles, the Quaffle under his arm, as he considered his next move. Ah, yes..he could think of just the manoeuvre.

He turned the handle of his broomstick upward and circled higher, higher. When he was some forty feet above the rings, he turned his Firebolt down into a vertical divebomb. He reckoned it would pretty near impossible to tell which ring he was actually aiming for, approaching at this angle.

Snape looked rather startled as Harry arrowed towards him. He hovered by the central ring, ready to dive: whether in front of a ring to save the Quaffle, or out of the way to save his life was unclear. Harry veered slightly towards the left. Snape hesitated, clearly trying to decide whether it was a feint. He made up his mind, and lunged to the right. The Quaffle dropped through the ring on the left.

Ten-all, and Snape had a shot in hand. Harry read his intentions, to Snape's visible irritation, and managed to bat the Quaffle away from the rings he was guarding with a jaunty little flip of his broomstick tail. Harry punched the air. The gesture shrivelled somewhat when he saw the look on his opponent's face.

Third time, Snape scored and not Harry.

Fourth time, Harry scored and not Snape.

The final round. Harry pondered. He really did not want to lose this competition. It would give Snape far too much satisfaction to beat Harry Potter, the youngest Seeker in a century, and son of the Quidditch hero James to boot. He would be unbearably smug all evening. That meant it was crucial that Harry scored this round; at least then he would be guaranteed a draw. He had already run through most of the manoeuvres that he knew and Snape, sneaky sod that he was, would be unlikely to be fooled by the same trick twice. Hmm….

* * *

I watched him circling as he brooded on his next move. I was very pleased with myself. It would be most gratifying to beat young Mr Potter at Quidditch. He had far too good an opinion of himself in that respect… Now, what was he up to this time?

As I watched, I noticed in alarm that his broom had started to quiver slightly. My heart began to race faster. Damn it…I shouldn't have suggested this; he wasn't well enough yet…I was poised to fly to the rescue when I saw that he had begun to sway on the broom, which was now jerking erratically.

I zoomed towards him, anxious for his safety. I couldn't get to my wand; if I didn't reach him in time, he would fall…I let my breath out in relief as I drew close; he was still firmly seated on his wobbling broom; I reach to catch him.

To my utter indignation, the boy then laughed – yes, _laughed_ – turned that ridiculously high-powered broom of his on a Knut, and zipped at full speed in the opposite direction.

He scored, naturally. My breast swelled with righteous fury.

The cheating brat.

I was so put out by this that I played my own shot wide and missed by a considerable margin. I said nothing at all to him as we returned our brooms to the shed, but strode along with stiff shoulders.

He trotted at my side. He could have been panting from the effort to keep up, I supposed, but I was more inclined to think he was suppressing giggles.

* * *

Harry couldn't help smirking. Snape's face….

A whirl of white wings brushed his cheek.

"_Hedwig!"_ Harry yelled in delight. He had left her with the Weasleys; someone must have them told where he was and they had sent her back.

She clucked at him and nibbled his ear. She held out her leg, to which a parcel was attached. Snape had turned at Harry's cry.

"Fan mail, Potter?" he asked sardonically.

"No..it's from the Weasleys…it's my birthday tomorrow…..Wow!"

Harry beamed at the little wizarding chess game. His old one had come from out of a Christmas cracker and wasn't really up to much. This one had beautifully carved characters, who waved at him imperatively as if keen to begin playing.

There was also a letter, which Harry scoured eagerly.

_Dear Harry_, Ron had written.

_How are you, mate. Mum said you had been ill and couldn't come down to __London__ yet. That's a bugger, eh? She says you're staying at Hogwarts with Snape, is that right? Blimy Harry, that must be awful. I can't even imagine how terrible that would be. I'll bet you wish you were back with those Muggles, even they can't be as bad as spending your summer with that greasy old git!_

_It's pretty quiet here. Everyone's busy, doing stuff. Can't say much, you know why. But Hermione is coming next week. Maybe you'll be well enough to travel then, it would be great to have you here. Mind you, if you're still sick it will be hard on your nerves. Fred and George keep on testing things for Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. Bring ear-plugs. Mum never stops yelling at them._

_Ginny says hi._

_See you soon, I hope. Cheers then_

_Ron_

Harry looked up. Snape was still watching him with a curious expression on his face.

"So tomorrow you come of age, do you?"

"Yeah. So I can use magic legally, that will be so cool…Finally, no more owls from the Ministry of Magic about underage spells!"

"What a singularly terrifying thought, Potter. Given how much trouble you manage to land yourself in without use of magic, it is rather daunting to imagine what your future holds."

"Well," Harry said quietly, looking away. "At least I'll be able to defend myself. And Apparate! I can learn to Apparate!"

Snape shuddered, as if he had beheld a vision of Harry popping up all over the place and it was too awful to contemplate.

"Go and sit quietly somewhere out of the way," Snape told him abruptly. "You look tired. And I have things to do. Oh, and Potter. Do try not to fall in the lake, get eaten by a werewolf, or in any other way kill, damage or maim yourself in my absence."

Harry wondered what Snape was up to. He had looked positively shifty as he swung around and strode away.


	6. Snape's Revenge

This was the second impulse I had acted on in one day. It was unprecedented. Finally, the years of inhaling Potions had rotted my brain. It was the only explanation. 

My first port of call was the house elves. I was looking for the extraordinary creature with several tea-cosies on his head and a collection of vile, garish socks. I had noticed in the past that this particular elf had some kind of attachment to Potter. He was, naturally, delighted to see me, entirely at my service, and so on. And so forth. House elves are so boring.

I explained what I wanted. As I was obliged to leave the Castle for a short while, could he and some of his comrades keep an eye on Potter and see he came to no harm. The inner grounds of Hogwarts itself were entirely safe, of course. It was the boy I didn't trust to keep out of trouble. House elves, when not bound by their enslavement, are powerfully magical creatures. They were to guard him, and keep him still, quiet and out of harm's way.

Next I changed my clothes, and strolled along to the castle gates. Once outside, I smiled grimly to myself. I had been looking forward to this trip for some days, and had been waiting until Potter was sufficiently recovered to be left alone without fear of relapse.

Then I Apparated to Little Whinging.

* * *

Harry was surprised, but not alarmed, when he saw the delegation of house elves coming towards him. He was sitting under a tree, dozing slightly. Snape had been right; he was tired. The Quidditch 'Sudden Death' had been a lot of fun, but he really was still quite weak. He smiled to himself again when he thought of the ruse by which he had won the final round. Snape would never get over it. 

"Hello, Dobby," he said cheerfully. "What are you doing here?"

Dobby crouched down, resplendent in his multi-coloured garments. He somehow contrived to look more bizarre every time Harry saw him. His green ball-like eyes were very large now as he stared at Harry. The house elves with him squatted round Harry in a circle.

"Dobby apologizes, sir. Harry Potter must be kept safe, sir."

"What are you talking about, Dobby?" Harry was getting a bit nervous now. He remembered Dobby's previous attempts to keep him safe. It was not reassuring.

"Professor Snape, sir, has asked Dobby to make sure that Harry Potter is safe."

"Oh. Right, Dobby. But I'm fine, see? I'm just having a little nap in the sunshine…"

"But Harry Potter needs to keep still, sir. Professor Snape said we had to make sure Harry Potter stayed still. Then he will be safe.Dobby is just doing what Professor Snape asks, sir…"

Harry jumped in outrage. Dobby had closed his huge eyes, wagged his bat-like ears, and the next thing Harry knew, he was encased in some kind of soft foam. It was perfectly comfortable, but impossible for Harry even to stand up. It was like being wrapped in a large see-through duvet.

"WHAT – "

"Would Harry Potter like a cup of tea? Or a biscuit, perhaps? We can fetch Harry Potter anything he wants…"

Harry groaned bitterly, and closed his eyes. He had _known _Snape would find some way to get back at him for beating him at Quidditch.

* * *

Harry's uncle obviously recognized me. He began to splutter and bluster, and tried to close the door in my face. I blocked his arm, and marched right on in. 

I stared down at him with disdain. This sweating, red-faced bag of blubber had caused me to spend nearly a week practically chained to a hospital bed, with Potter sick and screaming at my side. I took in the rolls of fat oozing out over his collar and his waistband. I recalled Potter's skinny chest and the ridges of his ribs – several of which had been broken.

I had barely moved yet: merely fixed him with my stoniest glare. And the man was practically crying already. He backed up against the stair-well. He was standing in front of the cupboard. The cupboard into which he had thrown his injured nephew, and locked the door behind him.

I growled in my throat. I wondered if he would wet his pants before I had even said a word.

"I- I can explain," he choked out.

"Indeed?" I folded my arms, and waited.

"He, he needs discipline, that boy. He's a weirdo. He's not right in the head. He…"

His voice trailed off. Possibly it occurred to him another wizard might not care for this description of a magic-user.

"Please…I'll give you anything you want…"

He was pathetic.

At that moment the door opened and a horsy woman entered, trailed by a vast young man about the same age as Potter and about six times as large.

How nice. The whole family was here.

The woman let out a little shriek when she saw me towering in her hallway, with her husband wringing his hands in front of me.

"Vernon! What is this?"

I smiled at her; at least, I bared my teeth at her. I did not intend the gesture to be warm or friendly. She did not seem to interpret it as such, for she cringed backwards with another squawk of fear.

The fat boy was trying to back out of the door. I froze it shut with a wave of my hand.

Now they were all practically crying. This was just like teaching, really.

I gestured for them all to go into the living room and sit down. I remained standing, and leaned my shoulders back against the door. I was beginning to enjoy myself.

It is a pity that the Ministry takes such an unnuanced view of Dark magic. I did not dare to use any unpleasant curses on them. And besides…they were so…pitiful. They were unworthy of my attention. They were unworthy to have been Potter's guardians. I understood about the charm rooted in his mother's blood, but really…It was unbelievable that this scrawny woman clutching her chest in fear could possibly have been closely related to Lily Evans.

They trembled with anticipation. Then the man cleared his throat.

"Wh…what are you going to do to us?"

I chose not to reply for a few moments. They looked, if anything, even more frightened. House elves had more guts than these whimpering idiots.

"What if I cast a spell so that you experience what you put Potter through? Would you consider that to be fair repayment for your treatment of him?" I asked pleasantly.

The man set his jaw. His moustaches wobbled."He deserved what he got!" he said gruffly. "He comes here, he blows up my sister, he puts us all in danger with those Demented thingies…embarrasses us in front of the neighbours.."

Ah. They did not like to be embarrassed.

I could not really cast such a spell, so that Potter's pain was inflicted on them in their turn. Using hostile mind magic of that kind on Muggles carried very heavy penalties. I had no intention of spending time in Azkaban on account of these non-entities.

There are many other means of inflicting misery, however. Muggles use them all the time.

"No? You don't like my suggestion? Let us start somewhere simpler, then. It is Potter's birthday tomorrow. Seventeen is the most important threshold for a wizard…" (They cringed visibly at the word) "…for he will be coming of age. What are you getting him for his birthday?"

They looked thoroughly blank.

"G-getting him? For his birthday?" the man spluttered, as if such an idea were amazing.

I narrowed my eyes. "Let us start somewhere even simpler, then. What do you usually buy for Potter at his birthdays and Christmas?"

They looked at each other uneasily.

"Speak," I said nastily. I drew my wand out of my pocket and pointed it at the cowering man with a dramatic flourish.

"SOCKS!" he burst out, leaning back in his chair. "At least…my old socks…gave him some of my old socks…"

"And?"

"A tissue," the woman whispered. "We sent him a tissue one year, do you remember, Vernon…"

"It was a Kleenex tissue! It was a bloody good one!"

I tapped my wand against my arm.

"It seems to me," I told them, "that you owe Potter for quite a number of birthdays and Christmases. Let me see. How much would that come to, do you suppose?"

They looked horrified. Monetary considerations were obviously important to them. Good.

"Let me help you," I said kindly. "How much did you spend on this fat boy here last Christmas?"

The man muttered under his breath.

"What? Six hundred pounds? And you have had Potter since he was one? That comes to - well, let's say twenty thousand pounds, shall we? A nice round figure." I addressed the fat man, whose moustaches were fairly quivering in dismay. "I'll just wait here with your wife and son, while you go and fetch it."

"Wh- wh – WHAT? I haven't even got that much, and I certainly wouldn't give it to that sodding boy if I did!"

"How much do you have?" I ground my eyes into his.

"Seven thousand," he said sulkily. "Business has been bad. That's all there is in the current account." He was telling the truth.

"Well, I suppose it's better than nothing. Off you go, then. Be back soon, won't you?" I waved my wand rather pointedly in the direction of the woman and the boy.

And off he went. He had spluttered, and stuttered, and tried to plead with me. I was unmoved. I would have infinitely preferred to cast any number of jinxes at him, and watch him squirm, but this way certainly seemed to be causing all the suffering I desired.

The boy was howling. I watched him in fascination. I recalled my Occlumency sessions with Potter the previous year. This must be the charming lad who had tried to flush Potter down the toilet. I twitched my wand, just a little, and murmured under my breath. It was such a small spell…really the Ministry would never notice…..

"Dad was – going – to buy me – a _car_ with that money – " he was blubbering.

"There, there, Dudders," his mother murmured, casting quick glances at me in case I wished to interrupt this touching display of maternal affection. "Daddy will buy you one as soon as he can."

"He won't be _able_ to," the boy bawled. "The company's going bust, you told me….we're going to be _poor_…"

Yes. They were. I released another tiny little spell or two. I smirked.

I made the man count the money in front of me when he returned. He was sobbing freely as I gathered it up and began to leave.

"It's not _fair!_" he blustered at me. "What did we do to deserve this?"

I raised my eyebrows at him. "Are you serious? What did you do to deserve this? You starved, beat and abused a boy in your care. Believe me, Mr Dursley, you are getting off lightly. If I were in a position to inflict on you what you _deserve_ you would be in a sorry state indeed. Good afternoon. Thank you so much for your time."

I swept away, leaving them clutching each other and crying. I overheard one last snippet as I exited.

"Uh, Dudders dear, where have you _been_? You smell like sewerage…"

Ah yes. That would be the Stink Spell I had cast.

The woman would have her embarrassment in full measure over the next week, when all the vermin from miles around would find themselves irresistibly attracted to the Dursley household. Mice, rats, flies, wasps, pests of all kinds: they would plague their lives and disgust the neighbours.

The man would find every business deal he did would go wrong. He would have the opposite of the Midas Touch. Everything he touched would turn to dross.

It would not be for ever. But they would be very miserable for quite a while.

My next stop was Gringotts, where I exchanged the Muggle money and retrieved a certain item from my vault. By the time I departed from Diagon Alley, it was much later than I anticipated when I arrived back at Hogwarts. The boy had not returned to the dungeons yet. I was rather surprised; surely by now he was bored of pacing the grounds on his own. I trusted that those house elves had faithfully discharged their duty, and restrained him from getting into mischief.

Who would have thought that oversight of one adolescent boy would be so much trouble? I decided I had better go and search for him. After all my efforts to keep him alive, it would be unfortunate to say the least if something had gone amiss.

It took me some time, but eventually I tracked him down.

He was safe, that was for certain. He hadn't able to get up to any tricks. He was sitting under a tree, encased in immobilizing jelly, and surrounded by house elves. He looked furious.

The day just got better and better. The house elves had obviously taken my words with utmost seriousness. I smirked.

"Hello, Mr Potter," I drawled.

"Snape!" he snapped, his head whipping round. It was about the only bit of him that could move freely. "Just because I beat you at Quidditch! Call them off!"

"Ah yes. I asked them to keep an eye on you and make sure you didn't get into any trouble. I see they have interpreted my instructions most zealously. Have you been here all afternoon?"

"YES!" His face was bright red now.

"Dear, dear. You will have had a nice rest, then."

"_Please_, Professor Snape, get me out of this…."

He looked close to tears. I relented, and indicated to the house elves that they could remove the spell. Potter was too disgruntled to speak.

This time, as we walked back to the castle, it was I who had to suppress my mirth.


	7. Happy Birthday, Mr Potter

A letter and a present from Hermione arrived first thing the morning of Harry's birthday, brought by Pigwidgeon. Harry grinned in pleasure as the little fluttering owl hopped up and down on the table. Snape glanced up from the book he was reading while abstractedly eating breakfast.

"That," he said incredulously, "is an owl?"

"Yeah, it's Ron's owl."

"Then all is now clear." Snape returned to his book.

_Dear Harry_

_Ron sent me Pigwidgeon so I could write to you, that was thoughtful of him, wasn't it?_

_I hope you are all right. Ron told me you had been sick. I'll bet it wasn't much fun being ill at the Dursleys. Mind you, Ron says you're staying with Professor Snape now at Hogwarts. I must admit that surprised me. I wouldn't have thought nursing was quite his forte. Is he being OK with you? I mean I know you're not his favourite person, and everything, but Dumbledore obviously thought it was for the best._

_I have had a very useful summer. I think it's very important to get down to some really hard work to prepare for the NEWTS. They're much more difficult than OWLs were, and you can't start getting ready soon enough, don't you agree? I really envy you being at Hogwarts, it must be so handy having the library there and everything._

_I do hope I see you next week!_

_Love_

_Hermione_

Harry patted the letter affectionately. Typical Hermione. It occurred to him, guiltily, that he hadn't set foot in the library. It had certainly never occurred to him that it might be a source of entertainment. Besides, if he wanted books, Snape's chambers were crammed to the ceiling with them.

Harry opened Hermione's present cautiously. One could never tell with Hermione. Sometimes her presents were totally cool, like the Broomstick Servicing Kit. Other times her studious inclinations got the better of her. He thought guiltily of his homework planner which had received very little use.

This was one of her more inspired moments. Harry beamed at the little magical music box. Hermione had already stored lots of his favourite music onto it, from both the Muggle and the wizarding worlds. He wanted to play it, but suspected that Snape might be one of those people who liked silence at the breakfast table.

Snape finished eating.

"Happy birthday, Mr Potter," he said.

"Thanks, Professor," Harry replied. He meant it. Few indeed were the birthdays when someone had actually said that to him, in person.

The next owl was from Hagrid. Snape looked irritated, and muttered something under his breath about his dungeons turning into the Owlery.

The letter from Hagrid was very short. Whatever he was doing, he clearly wanted to keep quite secret and give nothing away. He seemed to have decided the best way to achieve this was to say as little as possible. Harry opened Hagrid's present with especial care. You really never did know with Hagrid. He had funny ideas about what constituted a cute and cuddly gift.

This one was most odd, though. Harry stared at the random collection of talons and bits of bone. What was Hagrid thinking of?

Snape peered over his shoulder.

"Don't tell me, Potter: you don't know what these are."

"No," Harry admitted.

"They are Griffin remains, Potter. A very powerful magical protection, and eminently suited to a member of your House." Snape had even managed to refer to Gryffindor without spitting, Harry noticed. Maybe he was making an effort for his birthday!

Harry fingered the pieces. "What do you do with them?"

Snape considered him thoughtfully. "You find a friendly Potions Master and ask him to brew you a Griffin Elixir. It makes you much more resistant to bodily ills, whether physically or magically induced."

"Oh. Right." Harry looked at Snape sideways. "A friendly Potions Master."

"That's right, Mr Potter. Quite the dilemma you have there, isn't it?" His eyes glinted.

Harry chewed his lip contemplatively. He knew only one Potions Master, who at the moment was at least not being _un_friendly, precisely. "Er, Professor - would you…please…..? I'll take your Potions research notes for you for a week…."

"So eager to spend more time in my company, Potter?"

Harry scowled at him. For some reason this made Snape smirk. "Anyway, Mr Potter, if you have quite finished with your menagerie I have something for you."

"For me?" Harry was astonished.

"A little gift from your relatives."

"From the _Dursleys_?"

"That is correct. I believe they, hem, surprised even themselves with the extent of their generosity."

Snape deposited a large bag in front of Harry. It was so heavy he had needed to use magic to transport it. Harry looked at the bag, looked at Snape, and then tentatively reached out a hand. He pulled the bag open, and gaped. The bag was stuffed with Galleons. There must be thousands of pounds worth here, Harry thought in incredulity.

"Where – what – how?" he managed.

"Eloquent as ever, Mr Potter," Snape commented. "I visited your relatives yesterday. I collected your birthday present."

"You – visited – the Dursleys? That's where you were yesterday when you set the house elves on me?" Harry looked at Snape uncertainly. Snape's face was enigmatic, as usual. Harry wished he was more adept at reading Snape's expressions. He was beginning to learn that they hid a far more complex array of thoughts and emotions than he had ever previously suspected. Harry was silent for a moment longer, then blurted out: "What did you do to them? Did you hurt them?"

"What would make you think that, Mr Potter?"

"Well, they would_ never_ give me a decent present, even. Never mind _this_. You must have done something to them…"

"Would you care, Mr Potter?"

Snape was watching him intently as if the answer to this question was important. Harry was bewildered.

"Well of course I would. They're my relatives! I can't stand them, but it doesn't mean I want them hurt…"

"A Gryffindor to the bone, Mr Potter. Except," Snape added with a chilly tinge to his voice, "when using deplorable and underhand tactics to cheat your way to victory at Quidditch."

Harry shook his head in amazement. He didn't especially want or need the money. His parents had left him pretty well off, financially. But…he found himself pleased, nevertheless, that the Dursleys had been obliged to part with it. They would have been most put out at having to do so. And they did deserve to be punished, Harry told himself. It wasn't right to treat someone the way the Dursleys had always treated him…

"What did you to them?" he repeated to Snape.

Snape told him.

Harry stared at him, mouth agape. Then he collapsed onto the floor and laughed so hard his stomach ached. He especially liked the thought of Dudley emitting the odour of raw sewerage. Snape watched him patiently, hands on hips, while Harry succumbed to his paroxysms.

"How – long - ?" he gasped, clutching his belly.

"Six weeks. Then all the spells will wear off."

There was definitely poetic justice in that. Harry managed to calm himself down somewhat, and then looked up at Snape.

"Why did you do it?"

Snape looked away. Harry realized, with astonishment, that he was witnessing deep embarrassment. Snape had been discovered in an act apparently inspired by compassion, and could clearly not cope with it at all.

"That is not important," Snape said gruffly. "I – also – have some other small thing for you. A mere token, since as our mutually ill-starred fortunes would have it, you happen to be with me on the day you come of age."

He thrust a small package at Harry and then retreated to the other side of the room, busying himself with quite unnecessary tasks. Harry fingered the little parcel. Presents on his birthday from the Dursleys _and _from Snape! He shook his head. Life was unfathomable sometimes.

Curiously, he unwrapped the gift. His fingers froze in shock when he saw what it was.

"Professor," he whispered. "I can't accept this."

"Don't be silly, Potter," Snape snapped. "It's nothing. Don't make a ridiculous fuss about it."

"It isn't nothing," Harry said. "It's amazing!"

And it was. It was a Fireheart stone. It was quite small, and polished smoothly into a perfect sphere. It was flawless. At first glance, it seemed to be a beautiful deep, clear turquoise. However, when Harry stared into it, other colours twisted and shimmered within. At the heart of stone a blue flame writhed. There was a little silver clasp attached to it, so that the stone could be hung around the neck. Harry had seen similar stones in Diagon Alley. They were very powerful magical conduits. They greatly enhanced the wearer's ability to perform wandless magic.

"It's fabulous, Professor," he said softly. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

"As I said, as I said, it's nothing," Snape muttered. "In pure-bred wizarding family it is tradition to give such stones when someone comes of age. As your family are Muggles, and consider tissue paper to be an acceptable gift… Do shut up blethering, Potter."

Harry smiled. Hermione and Ron were never going to believe this.

Snape made a vexed noise as yet another owl managed to find its way down into his dungeons. Harry was puzzled. The Weasleys, Hermione, Hagrid..who else would be sending him a present? Lupin could barely afford to buy the potion he so desperately needed each month, Harry thought regretfully.

But the owl wasn't for him. It glided across the room to Snape, who took the letter from its proffered leg.

Harry watched in puzzlement as Snape's hand closed around the parchment. His knuckles were white. And surely his fingers were trembling?

"What is it, Professor?" Harry asked quietly. "Is something wrong?"

"Nothing," Snape muttered. His voice was raspy. "It's nothing, nothing at all."

But his limbs seemed to be twitching oddly, Harry noticed, as he paced the room. This wasn't nothing, he was sure.


	8. Harsh Words

_A/N Thanks, thanks, thanks to reviewers. It is always really great to receive feedback._

_This is a bit angsty...but developments are not gratuitous and are integral to the plot..honest!_

I worked frenziedly that day, allowing myself no time for thought.

Potter trailed around after me in my Potions workroom, casting me occasional worried looks from under his lashes. I gave him as many repulsive tasks as I possibly could. I did not appreciate the way he was staring at me. I did not need or want his concern.

"Potter," I finally snarled in exasperation. "Get out of my way!"

"I'm just trying to help," he mumbled.

"Well, don't. Go for a walk or something. And no riding on your broom without supervision. Is that clear?"

"Fine. Whatever."

He left, slamming the door behind him. I breathed more easily, and allowed myself to sink into the sour pleasure of a really vile mood without the distraction of the boy traipsing at my heels like a bemused puppy dog. Just because I gave the boy a trifling present, which any wizard should expect to receive at their coming of age as of right, he seemed to think he had forged some sort of connection with me. He oozed sympathy and concern. I growled. I did not want sympathy. I wanted to kill something. Almost I wished it was school term. At least then I could share my misery around by intimidating my classes to the verge of cardiac arrest.

Potter sidled back to my dungeons in the late afternoon, obviously wary of my uncertain temper. That put me in an even worse frame of mind. Still, I reminded myself. It was his birthday. Maybe I should make some small effort to be convivial. Or pleasant. Or even perhaps just civil. However, Potter managed to stay unobtrusively in a corner with a book, and slowly my temper simmered down.

Come the evening, it was easier to relax. The house elf with all the socks had realized it was Potter's coming of age. He sent up wine, Butterbeer and Firewhisky with the meal. I took one look at Potter and removed the Firewhisky from his vicinity. From the expression on his face when he saw the bottle, he was not accustomed to drinking alcohol of such strength. And there are few things in life as tedious as a drunken teenager.

With hindsight, drunken professors are perhaps not all that entertaining either.

I poured myself a hefty shot of Firewhisky and slugged it down. This was one day when I really felt a mild alcoholic haze might be rather restful. I had barely drank since the previous Christmas, when Dumbledore had held a staff party and insisted I make some sort of effort to join in the festivities. I had decided that drinking on my own in a corner counted as participation. My dear colleagues had persisted in conjuring paper hats in various disgusting colours and shapes and levitating them onto my head. This seemed to afford them some sort of childish amusement. Dumbledore had finally called them off just before my death glare turned into Avada Kedavra for real.

Potter was drinking wine in gulps. He did not look as if he much liked it. I wondered if I should insist he drank Butterbeer instead, which is barely alcoholic at all. He was of age now, though. And it was not school term. Finally, I shrugged. As long as he didn't drink so much he was ill all over me, my personal belongings or my chambers it was not my concern.

Once the meal finished, with food and whisky sitting warmly in my stomach, my outlook improved. Slightly. At least, I unbent sufficiently to address a few words to Potter which didn't sound as if I were cursing him. He brightened visibly, and took advantage of my less hostile demeanour by challenging me to a game of chess.

"Professor," he said hesitantly. "The Weasleys sent me a chess set for my birthday. The pieces are dying for a game. Do you play?" His cheeks were flushed, whether with wine or at his own daring I do not know.

"I do," I told him. My eyes glinted evilly. This was my opportunity for revenge after the Quidditch fiasco. None of that showy flitting around on broomsticks. Cool strategy, the demands of logic, a game entirely dependent on brainpower. I couldn't possibly lose. "If you are asking me whether I will play with you, Potter, then yes. Why not?"

He looked absurdly pleased, and trotted off to fetch the game. It was rather touching, I supposed, that the perpetually broke Weasleys had scraped together enough money to buy him a decent present for his birthday. It was actually quite a reasonable chess set. I examined the pieces carefully.

They struggled in my grasp. "Put me down, foul knave!" the white rook bawled at me.

"I think I had better play black," I said drily to Potter. "I suspect the pieces will respond better."

The maker of the chess set had obviously been a Gryffindor by inclination, if nothing else. The knights had to be bullied into taking the pawns, which they obviously considered to be unworthy prey for chessmen of their nobility. The Queens insisted on giving fair warning to their opponents if you moved them into a threatening position. I finally stopped my pieces babbling my battleplans by threatening to gag them. I had no intention of losing at chess to Potter. I sipped at my Firewhisky as I watched him frowning over the board, deciding on his next moves.

Actually Potter didn't play all that badly. His main problem was that he played chess like he played life. He did not want to make sacrifices. He wanted to save and protect his pieces: all of them, all of the time. I was reminded of all the reasons why I did not like the foolish boy opposite me.

I pointed out to him that a saviour complex was the fatal flaw in his game. To my surprise, it seemed to upset him.

"Now what?" I demanded irritably. The Firewhisky burned down my throat. I refilled the glass.

"Oh," he mumbled. "It's just…it's what Hermione said to me. Last year. Before Sirius died, you know? That I had a saving-people-thing…."

I had not realized Granger had so much sense.

"Well? You do. Truth hurts, does it? Always the little hero, our Mr Potter." I raised my glass in an ironic flourish, and took another gulp.

Something flared in his face. It might have been anger. Or equally, it could have been hurt. I found that in my current mood I didn't much care either way. "Don't say that!" he said then. There was an edge to his voice which was almost pleading. "Why do you always keep saying that?"

Was he serious?

"Let me see," I drawled, taking another slug of Firewhisky. I leaned back in my chair and cast my eyes towards the ceiling as I counted the occasions off on my hands. "There would be the time in your first year when you endangered yourself and your friends by going after an item of which you should have known nothing, but made it your business to find out about. The time in your second year when you decided it was your personal task to solve the riddle of the Chamber of Secrets. The time in your third year-"

"I didn't ask for any of that to happen!" he interrupted, flushing.

"Oh come now, Potter. Of course you did. You had choices. You did not have to ferret out dangerous secrets, sneaking around the castle out of hours in your invisibility cloak –"

"It's a good thing I did though, isn't it! I mean Ginny might have died, and S-S-Sirius would certainly have been caught by the Dementors – and…"

"Quite. It is just as I said, Mr Potter. You like to play the hero. If you truly do not, why do you attempt to do it so – damned – often?" I finished with something of a snap. The anger swirling not far below the surface of my thoughts was intensifying.

"You don't think I wanted any of this, do you?" He was bright red now. You've got no idea what it's like, being the _Boy Who Lived_, having this scar –"

Well now. The scar. The 'oh-my-god-it's-Harry-Potter' scar. I gulped back some more Firewhisky and leaned forward across the table, so that my eyes bore into his own.

"You think you are so special, don't you, Mr Potter? With that little scar on your forehead?" I was baiting him now. The distress I was inflicting somehow seemed to ease the mass of pain burning in my own chest.

"No! No, I don't, but everyone else does, they expect things of me, they –"

"Come off it, Potter. Face up to it. Of course you think you are special. I have heard you. There is nobody so ill-used as you, nobody who shoulders such burdens…"

"Well there isn't!" he shouted. "Have _you_ got a prophecy made before you were born saying you have to kill the darkest lord of the time or die trying?"

I leaned back in my chair, cradling my drink. Something swung unpleasantly in the pit of my stomach. I did not really want to think about the relationship between the Dark Lord and myself. I could feel the abyss opening at my feet.

"Me?" I said softly. "I think you should consider very carefully what you are saying, Mr Potter. You know _nothing_ about me, and the burdens I carry. Do not even presume to suppose you do."

"Oh, right, so now it's you everyone should feel sorry for, is it? You seem to have done all right out of it! You're still here, aren't you? You've got a job at Hogwarts, you don't even have to spy any more…"

I hissed in fury. "Mr Potter, I repeat. If you do not _shut up_ you will regret it."

"No I bloody well won't shut up! You insult me all the time, with all those cracks about being a boy hero and so on. It's about time you thought what it might actually be like for m-me, Voldemort killing my parents, and then c-coming after me year after year…." His voice was shaking.

"So the Dark Lord is after you, is he? Poor little Harry Potter," I snarled at him, slugging back more of my drink.

That was rather too close to home at the moment.

* * *

Harry could feel anger ripping through his skin. Snape was just so infuriating. He had never been fair to him. He had always assumed the worst, and goaded him, and made thoroughly unjust judgements about him. 

"So the Dark Lord is after you, is he? Poor little Harry Potter."

Harry's ire swelled. Snape was lounging back in his chair, eyeing Harry as if he were a piece of dirt. Snape, who had once been a Death Eater, and thought it was just fine to take his foul temper out on the entire world. Or at least the Gryffindors. Harry switched tactics and went onto the offensive."All right, then! If I'm so shallow and arrogant and selfish, what about you? Why do you think you have the right to be so damned horrible to people most of the time?"

Snape's face twisted. He was swallowing Firewhisky as if it were pumpkin juice. He regarded Harry for a long moment. His features were contorted, with rage and bitterness and something that might even have been fear.

"You want to know, Potter?" His voice was deadly.

"Yes, I do," Harry said defiantly. His heart was beating very fast. A small voice in his head was pointing out to him that he would almost certainly regret pushing Snape in this way. "I'm sick of you swooping about your classroom being so nasty to everybody. What makes it all right for you to do that?"

"Perhaps you are not the only person with difficult things in their past, Potter. Did that ever occur to you? No. I doubt it. The world revolves around Harry Potter, after all. Potter and his tiny little scar."

"So you've got bigger scars, have you? Wow. That makes it fine then for you to sneer at me, and frighten Neville to death, and –"

"Yes, Potter." Snape's face was flushed now, and the glass in his hand was empty. "I do have bigger scars. Do you really want to know? Do you?" He leaned across the table again.

Harry had an uneasy feeling that things might have gone too far. Snape looked as if he might expire from apoplexy at any moment. His own anger began to slip away from him. Snape was obviously under some sort of stress at the moment, and he probably shouldn't have picked this time to provoke him.

"No," Harry muttered, turning away. "It doesn't matter. I'm going to bed."

Snape's hand shot out and imprisoned Harry's wrist. Harry jumped, and stared indignantly.

"Let me go!" He shrank back. His heart thudded even more violently. _Snape won't hit me_, he told himself. _He's really angry, but he won't hit me_. The murderous glint in Snape's eyes was not, however, reassuring. Harry found himself gulping nervously and biting his lip in fearful anticipation.

"Not until you have heard, Potter. You think you are so badly done to. You have _no idea_. You are clueless. The dark lord takes everything, from everyone. You are scarcely unique in that."

"So what did he do to you then?" Harry snapped, his temper rising again. _Harry, be quiet! _his inner voice cautioned him. But he had never been good at keeping his head down and his mouth shut, even when being beaten to a pulp by his uncle or having his hand carved open by Umbridge."You look all right to me!"

"Really, Potter. _Really_. You know nothing. The Dark Lord hasn't murdered your cousins in front of you when you are old enough to remember it, has he? He hasn't taken a knife and carved up your flesh, has he? - holding you down with the immobilising jinx whilst he takes his blade and slashes at the most intimate parts of your body, mutilating and destroying, as if you were a dog having its balls chopped off at the Muggle vet…"

Harry gaped. The room froze into a stretched-out silence. Harry and Snape simply stared at each other, with intensity. "V…Voldemort did that to you?"

Snape suddenly seemed to come back to himself. He looked away. His mouth was twitching.

"Yes," he muttered. "A little reminder from the Dark Lord about the value of obedience. Oh, don't look so appalled, Potter. What do you think the Dark Lord does to his minions when he is displeased with them? Puts them in detention? I assure you, a bit of mutilation and losing a testicle is not the worst that could happen. In fact, it wasn't..."

He scoured Harry with the fierceness of his stare. "Since, regrettably, I cannot throw you out of my chambers I am leaving myself."

Snape strode through the door, and slammed it viciously behind him.

Harry gazed after him for a long, shocked moment. He had hung the Fireheart stone Snape gave him for his birthday around his neck. He rolled it slowly in his hand. It was cool and smooth to the touch.

Harry realized he was still quivering with emotion. He took a tremulous breath, and discovered in himself an overwhelming urge to weep.


	9. Through the night

I strode the familiar passages with long, if slightly unsteady, strides. 

I brushed the walls with the tips of my fingers. Stones always soothed me. They were ancient. They were imperturbable. They were cold to my touch, and I tried to absorb their wintry stillness into my body.

I walked for a long while. The corridors echoed, deserted but for me. I sobered up with the exercise and the chill.

I began to feel rather stupid. And perhaps, just slightly ashamed. And, definitely, acutely embarrassed. What ever had possessed me…?

It was Potter, of course. The boy had an uncanny ability to push me to extremes. Control was my art-form, and had long pruned my life into strict forms. It was the only reason I had survived as a spy in the Dark Lord's camp for so long. There was no place for emotion. No place for impulse. Potter provoked me, always. In the past, this had even been an advantage. The Dark Lord was already becoming suspicious at the blankness of my thoughts when he read me. He did not like so little access to my inner workings. It had been possible to float my genuine hatred of Potter and all he stood for to the surface of my mind; this masked the complexity lurking beneath. It had encouraged the Dark Lord to trust me.

Trust.

I paced the corridors.

I recalled the boy's expression when I reached out to grab his arm. Defiance. Fear. I had a dreadful suspicion he had looked at his uncle in just that way: right before the Muggle smashed his fist into his face.

It wasn't as if I had actually hurt him, I told myself. He deserved some straight talking. He certainly didn't get it from Dumbledore, who pandered to his every whim. Or from his fan club in the Order of the Phoenix, which was…well, pretty much everybody except me really. Even Minerva McGonagall went all soppy over the boy given half an opportunity.

And, after all, the boy had been abominably rude. He was probably gloating his head off right at that moment, having succeeded in provoking his greasy old Potions Professor into reckless disclosures…Yes, I thought, doubtless he was enjoying a good laugh, possibly even writing a humorous note to his annoying little friends…._Guess what I found out tonight…._

I concentrated on the stones.

Finally, I decided I was calm enough to return. The boy should have long gone to bed. I could take refuge in my laboratory, and lose myself in some intricate experiment. My fury and misery seemed to have scalded the Firewhisky from my veins.

I was still some way from my chambers when I heard the explosion.

* * *

Harry wondered why he felt so appallingly awful. He hated Snape. He always had. And the feeling was quite clearly entirely mutual. So why did he feel so…bereft?

He moved restlessly around Snape's living room, his hand still curled around the Fireheart stone. Just what had got Snape so upset that day, anyway? What had been in that letter?

The door to Snape's study was unlocked. Snape had taken the letter into the study. Harry had seen him.

Well, Harry reasoned with himself. Things could hardly get worse. Snape could scarcely detest him any more than he already did. And maybe it was something important. Maybe it was something Dumbledore ought to know…._In which case_, the part of Harry's head which sounded a bit like Hermione pointed out, _it is up to Snape to tell him_.

Harry hesitated. His steps had taken him right to the study door. He hovered for a few undecided moments, then marched inside.

It was unlit, so Harry pulled out his wand. "_Lumos_," he murmured.

He wasn't going to pry, he told himself. He wasn't going to look in any of Snape's personal files. But perhaps…if that letter just happened to be lying around in plain view… he might take a peek.

There was a balled-up parchment on Snape's desk, as if someone had taken a letter and crumpled it in their fist.

Adrenalin flowing, Harry reached for the screwed-up paper. He recalled Snape's fury when Hermione had stolen some Boomslang from his personal stores in their second year; when Dobby had taken some Gillyweed in their fourth year. This was much, much worse than taking Potions ingredients. Harry's conscience prickled again. This was invasion of privacy… just as when he had sneaked a look into Snape's Pensieve…

He smoothed out the letter on the desk, and read it as swiftly as he could. The first thing he did was look at the signature. The letter was from Dumbledore.

_My dear Severus,_

_I trust this finds you well. Please confirm receipt; if intercepted by any but you this will dissolve._

_I have bad news, I fear. I wish I could return to tell you this in person, or even by Floo, but that is simply not possible from my current location._

_The Aurors have captured and questioned an individual on the fringes of Death Eater circles. He gave us information. Voldemort has apparently decided your continuing existence is an affront he is no longer prepared to bear. I regret to tell you that he has placed a substantial price on your head and mobilized every dark or criminal creature he can lay hands on to this cause. I do not suppose it is necessary for me to enter into detail about what he wishes to do with you. _

_Severus, you do understand the implications of this, I hope? It is no longer just your former lord's followers whom you have to watch out for. Every member of the wizarding and Muggle underworlds will be after you as well. Nowhere is safe for you._

_We also have evidence that he has found new ways to manipulate his Death Eaters through the Dark Mark. We do not know exactly how, but you are assuredly at greater risk than ever before. He will be able to find you in any location beyond Hogwarts itself. Those wards are too ancient for him to overcome. But that does not mean you are secure there, Severus. He will know you are at the school anyway, and as you will recall there have been intruders even at Hogwarts in the past._

_I have raised the emergency wards. No-one can get in or out of the school except with my express permission. I'm afraid this includes you, Severus. And you do not have my permission to leave. I refuse to lose you after all this time._

_I know this will annoy you. But I assure you it is all for the best._

_I trust your guest is prospering and hear he has not been in full health. Please send him to Headquarters by the secure private Floo as soon as possible. In light of all this I fear he may be safer elsewhere._

_Sincerely,_

_Albus_.

Harry carefully returned the letter to where he had found it. His heart thudded. No wonder Snape had been agitated. Voldemort turning the full power of his attention to the task of finding Snape… able to get at him somehow through the Dark Mark…even, perhaps, at Hogwarts. Harry did experience a brief surge of vindictive pleasure. Snape had sneered at Sirius when he had been imprisoned in 12 Grimmauld Place; he had taunted him about how useless he was. And now here was Snape in pretty much the same position. Except even more vulnerable because of the mark on his arm…and the Dark Lord had plans for him….Harry shuddered.

Harry's emotions were still too raw and tumultuous for him to take refuge in slumber. He curled up on the couch, turning his Fireheart over and over in his hands. He replayed Snape's words to him, and his to Snape.

Eventually, his tired body dragged him down into sleep. His mind continued to seethe.

The nightmares were waiting. They clutched at him with greedy hands. Corpses paraded in front of him, accusing him with dead faces. Cedric. Sirius. His parents. Nameless victims. _Your fault. Some hero. You didn't save us, did you? _Voldemort was there, laughing as he tortured Harry's friends before his eyes. Then it was Snape, with Voldemort raising a bloodied knife.. Harry was paralysed, he was helpless, he couldn't do anything to stop what was going on.

Rage and grief ripped him apart. Violent emotion surged through his body.

Harry was still trapped inside his nightmare, so he did not realize. But the morass of feelings swirling through his unconscious mind found a focus; an outlet.

They exploded out through the Fireheart stone in a sheet of shimmering, transparent flames.

Harry's body burned in the magical blaze. Still he slept, imprisoned in the dark paths of his dreams. In his nightmare, he was burning, burning….he struggled to scream but could not.

* * *

The explosion lent wings to my feet.

_Idiot boy_. What was he doing now?

I raced back to my rooms, robes billowing, and thrust the door violently open.

My heart stopped.

He was sheathed in pale, ghostly flames. His face was contorted in uncountable agonies and his mouth stretched open as if with screams he was unable to release. His hand still clutched the Fireheart stone at his chest.

_Idiot boy_.

As a Potions Master, most of my robes were charmed against all sorts of magical flames and burns. Even the most expert potions-maker could make a mistake, after all. And Dumbledore _would_ insist I reduce the safety of my classes by allowing dangerous incompetents like that Longbottom child into lessons…

I grabbed up some robes and hurtled across the room, enfolding Potter within the swathes of garment and muttering containment spells. I wrenched the Fireheart stone off his neck and cast it aside, grunting as the damn thing did its best to burn a hole through my hand.

The sheaf of flame around Potter subsided. I took in a shaky breath and assessed the damage. I sat on the couch, still holding him against my chest. His head fell upon my shoulder.

The were-fire must have scalded him all over. It left no marks, but his skin would be raw to the nerves. Didn't the boy know better than to sleep with a Fireheart stone around his neck, especially after drinking alcohol and in an emotional state? All the energies swirling in his brain had found a focus through the stone, and exploded out of it into that pale, shimmering inferno. If that was the visible expression of what had been going through his mind, I dreaded to think what his unconscious mind was experiencing…

I placed him in a healing trance, and transfigured his clothes and the enfolding robes into a voluminous burn poultice. It would take some hours, but this should both soothe his skin and repair the damage. I brushed my fingers against his cheek; he did not flinch, so perhaps his head had been spared the blaze. Good. Wrapping that in poultice might smother him, and tempting as that thought was….

_Idiot boy_.

I looked down at him. His face seemed to have relaxed since I had taken him in my arms. In sleep, his hands within the all-enfolding burn poultice had curled into the material at my chest. He was hanging onto the front of my robes as if for dear life.

I tried to rise, to carry him back to his bed. But he murmured as if in protest and his fingers clutched more tightly at my robes.

I sank back down. He looked as if was sleeping more restfully now. His mouth, no longer twisted open around screams he could not utter, was gently parted. He seemed fragile in my arms. And he was still far too thin: a waif.

I sighed, and held him to my chest. I held him in this way throughout the weary night. I did not wish to disturb him.

Cramps spasmed in the back of my neck, my arms.

Still I held him. I began to feel cold, and the burn on my own hand needed treatment. I remained, unmoving.

The fingers of a grey dawn finally poked their way through the small, high windows of my dungeon chambers. They brushed Potter's face with silver, as I sat and held him, and the long night began to give way to the morning.

I realized, with mild surprise, that I was no longer angry with him.

Today, I would need to send him away.


	10. Leaving Hogwarts

Harry drifted into sleepy awareness. He felt snug and cared for. He rested against the comforting warmth of a body.

A…body?

A body!

His eyes snapped open. His glasses had at some point been removed, but he could see well enough to realize it was Snape's body against which he leaned. He yelped, and tried to jump up, but found he was swaddled in some sort of material. He rolled helplessly across Snape's lap. His eyes were round. If Ron and Hermione could see this… and what was this stuff all over him?

"Don't panic, Potter," Snape drawled. "It's burn poultice."

Snape arranged Harry on the couch and stood up, stretching out his arms as if they were cramped. He balanced Harry's glasses on his nose. Harry felt vaguely grateful; Snape always seemed to realize that was the first thing he wanted when he woke up.

"Burn poultice?" Harry said stupidly.

"Yes…Potter, you told me you knew what a Fireheart stone was!" Snape sounded aggrieved.

"Er..yeah, I do…it's a channel for magic, isn't it? Sort of like a wand but not?"

Harry was perplexed. He had just woken up. _In Snape's arms_. He was wrapped in poultice, and now Snape was giving him some kind of quiz on the properties of magical stones?

"And did it not occur to you that the stone would channel your uncontrolled energies while you slept?" Snape demanded.

"No..uh, has this got something to do with me being wrapped in this burns stuff?"

"Yes, Potter," Snape sighed. "It does. You nearly turned yourself into kindling. Fortunately I was not too far distant, and the damage was only superficial. How is your skin?"

Harry prodded himself here and there under the poultice. "It's a bit sort of tingly, but otherwise it feels fine."

"Good. _Never_ wear that stone while you sleep. You have far too many nightmares. The stone will try to turn them into actuality….Possibly I should not have given you it…" Snape actually sounded worried.

"I really like it," Harry said quickly. "I'll be careful with it in future, I promise. Professor, can I get dressed now?" He did not want Snape to reclaim the gift, so he forebore from pointing out that if Snape had only told him that in the first place, he would not have spontaneously combusted while he slept.

"Certainly." Snape turned away from Harry, and moved across the room. He had signalled the house elves, and breakfast should be on its way.

"Er……Professor………….." Harry, having tried to move his limbs, realized that he was wrapped too tightly within the poultice for more than minimal movement. He flopped on the couch like a landed fish.

"Yes, Potter?" Snape glanced over at his shoulder at Harry. His eyes glinted.

Harry realized, indignantly, that Snape had deliberately left him in this predicament and was actually _laughing_ at him. "Could you help me up, please?" he said with as much dignity as he could muster.

Snape snorted and transfigured the poultice back into its original forms.

"It's a good thing your skin has healed," Snape commented, not looking at Harry, "because you will need to leave today."

"Today? Oh..! Where..?"

"Headquarters. You should be well enough to travel now. To make sure, if you will give me your griffin remains, I will brew you the Elixir. That will strengthen you for the journey. Your skin may still have some residual soreness, and it might need protection, as you will be going by Floo."

"Oh. OK…."

Harry went to fetch clean clothes and to freshen up in the bathroom. He wondered why he didn't feel more overjoyed at the prospect of leaving. Especially after that cataclysmic row last night. But Snape seemed to have decided to ignore the argument is if it had never happened. That suited Harry just fine.

Harry examined his tangled feelings about visiting the Order. He hated 12, Grimmauld Place anyway: ever since Sirius had died. Also, he didn't want to lie to his friends, but he didn't want to explain about the Dursleys either. He was reluctant to explore the reasons why. He felt ashamed about what had happened. He knew it was stupid to feel that way, but he did.

Snape was crotchety and difficult; but he knew all about the Dursleys, and he seemed to understand that Harry didn't want to talk about it. His lack of overt sympathy was easier to live with than fuss and exclamation. Also…Snape was singularly lacking in expectation as far as Harry was concerned. That was sort of refreshing. But of course he was looking forward to seeing Ron and Hermione again.. they could go shopping in Diagon Alley.. he would probably see Tonks and Lupin and Mad-Eye….Harry began to cheer up.

* * *

Now he was leaving, the boy looked positively bouncy, I noticed sourly as he returned to the room and began to eat his breakfast. He still picked at his food.

"Potter, the house elves do not prepare meals simply for their own pleasure in grovelling servitude. Eat."

He mumbled something. My ears could not have heard him correctly. I _thought_ he had said "You sound like Hermione."

"I – _what?_"

"Hermione." The boy was grinning at my discomfiture. "She's always going on about house elf appreciation and so on."

Hmm. I supposed if I were obliged - under threat of death - to sound like any one of the tedious trio, Granger was at least half-way capable of stringing coherent thoughts together. Weasley's brain cell (singular) was likely to expire from loneliness any time soon. And as for Potter…well…I waited, alarmed… I was sickening for something…for one strange moment, I had been unable to recall why sounding like Potter would be so devastating.

Foolish. Gryffindor. Noble. Idiot. And again: idiot.

That was better.

I rose from the table, my mind on the Griffin Elixir I was about to brew.

"Professor?" Potter said in a very small voice. I arched an eyebrow at him. "What did you tell them? The Order, I mean. They know I've been ill, it was in their letters…"

Ah. Now this, I understood.

"I told them you had been taken ill, made a thorough nuisance of yourself, and ruined my vacation. Naturally."

He looked relieved. "So you didn't – the Dursleys –"

"If it makes you feel any better, Potter, everybody's main anxiety is whether you will have survived spending several days alone in my company without permanent damage to your psychological health. I merely informed Mrs Weasley you were ill when I collected you, that you had hurt your head, and were unfit for further travel. She asked how you came to be injured, I told her I had no idea and no interest. She found this entirely plausible. She thinks little enough of your relatives, but struggled to decide whether you would have been better off in their or my tender care."

"Thank you," Potter said quietly.

"I should tell you, however," I added, "that I will be unable to keep the truth from the Headmaster. What you say to anyone else is entirely your own affair."

I made for my laboratory.

"Professor," he said again.

"_Yes_, Potter?"

"I won't say anything either…about.. you know…"

I paused, then chose to ignore this. "Bring me your griffin bones, Potter. We need to get started. This potion does not take long actually to brew but it is very fiddly and intricate to prepare."

* * *

I liked being alone. I did not need the company of anyone else: ever, at all. I was thoroughly looking forward to having Hogwarts back entirely to myself. Yes, most certainly.

Still… I hoped he would be all right at Headquarters. The Weasleys were idiots. Lupin was an idiot. The abysmal Mundungus Fletcher, who continued to haunt 12 Grimmauld Place, was living proof the Dark Lord's obsession with pure-blooded ancestry was wholly misguided. Yes, the world most assuredly was marred by some profound and fundamental design flaw. Not least, it seemed to me, because somewhere along the line I seemed to have acquired some sort of interest in Potter's well-being. I supposed it was rather like spending a lot of money on something in error, and then not wanting to dispose of it simply because it had cost you so much. After all the time and pain I had invested into Potter, I found I had become quite attached to his continuing existence.

So, I brewed his potion with care. They would only blame me, after all, if he fell out of the Floo at the other end in the same sort of state he managed on a regular basis whenever he landed at _my_ feet. I would be in daily expectation of howlers from Molly Weasley, complaining that her precious Potter was too thin, too pale, and altogether too…vulnerable. He still looked as if a good breeze would knock him down. And it probably would. Especially if I had the misfortune to be anywhere nearby.

"Professor?" Potter interrupted my train of thought.

I grunted. He appeared to take this as encouragement.

"Why don't you come to Headquarters?"

_Because Dumbledore has imprisoned me in Hogwarts. Without asking me. Like a child in detention. _"Because why would I have any desire to lock myself away with a pack of Weasleys and assorted members of an underground resistance group in which I no longer play any active part?"

"Oh. It's just, I wondered whether you'd be OK, you know, here on your own.." His voice trailed off.

I eyed him narrowly. Was the brat daring to suggest I might be lonely? Without _him_ to plague me night and day? Or.... was he questioning whether I would be _safe?_ Now where might Potter have come by the notion that I could be in danger…I had not shared with him my private correspondence…

"Why," I inquired silkily, "do you ask?"

"Well, it's no secret that Voldemort's after you, is it? And Headquarters is supposed to have all these wards around it too, just like Hogwarts, and there're other wizards around there…and here, everyone's away...."

I agreed with him. I saw _no reason_ why Dumbledore couldn't have allowed me to visit London, basing myself at the Order of the Phoenix Headquarters. I would even have put up with the Weasleys for the sake of some freedom of movement, and Merlin knew there were enough of them to stomach. However, as letting Potter know I agreed with him contradicted some deep-seated behavioural codes, I merely growled.

"My movements are no concern of yours, Potter. But, I assure you, I am much moved by this evidence of your care and concern." I sent a sneer in his direction.

He seemed unfazed by the sneer. This was worrying. Spending so much time alone with me appeared to have given him some kind of immunity to lower-level means of intimidation. It would be exhausting if my careful and precisely calibrated set of sneers, glares and scowls had lost their effectiveness in class, and I had to resort to more potent means of terrorization. (After which, I reflected bitterly, he would doubtless find some way to blow himself up, and it would somehow all end up being my fault, and I would have to spend yet more sleepless nights repairing the damage.)

The Elixir was finished. I had brewed the whole lot whilst I was at it; Potter would only need a couple of drops of it for the Floo journey.

"Here you are, Potter." I handed the bottle over. "You will only need two drops of this. Never take more than four drops in one day. Be sure to store the remainder somewhere cool and out of direct sunlight." I racked my brains; Griffin Elixir was a stable and entirely safe healing potion, but if anyone could find a way to turn it into a dangerous, volatile and life-threatening mixture, it would be Potter. "Don't add anything to it. Don't stir it. Don't shake it. In fact, really it would be best if you didn't touch it at all except to gently decant what you need…"

He nodded. I got the distinct impression he was humouring me.

"I'm all ready, then," he said. "Where is the private Floo?"

The private Floo..? He had. The atrocious child had been reading my mail. He could not have known a private Floo even existed otherwise. It was illegal, because it was not registered with the Ministry.

I had engaged in many emotionally fraught and extremely hazardous situations over the years. I had spent days, weeks, living on the edge of my nerves as I betrayed the Dark Lord to his very face. But, I discovered, I really could not be bothered to begin another argument with Harry Potter. The contents of the letter were known to the Order, after all, and Dumbledore had always allowed Potter and his friends access to an unwise amount of Order business.

I sighed to myself and chose to ignore his slip.

"Dumbledore's office," I told him.

And perhaps the boy was not entirely lost to all proper gratitude and appreciation. At least, in his parting words, he did sound sincere.

"I really do want to thank you, Professor," he said to me earnestly. "I know how hard you worked looking after me. And, Quidditch was fun, and even working in the lab…well, anyway. Thanks.."

And then he stepped into the fire.

Peace, at last.

Well: that was the theory.


	11. Headquarters again

_A/N_

**_Warning: not slash! _**_You know, I'm afraid the way this story is developing that even the non-graphic slash themes I had envisaged will not be putting in an appearance except very transiently.. The dynamic between Snape and Harry just isn't going in that direction. A sincere sorry to those of you who might have been looking for that….didn't intend to mislead, and I hope you still enjoy the story._

_For those of you who like my Snape, there is not much of his POV in this chapter, but it will be back in full biting and snarky force before long…_

Harry tumbled out of the Floo, dragging his trunk behind him.

He had arrived in one of the upstairs rooms at 12, Grimmauld Place. This must be the secret Floo connection. He knew the Weasleys were expecting him, for Snape had sent an owl, but they obviously had not known exactly when he would turn up. He looked around. He thought this was the room in which Sirius had kept Buckbeak.

Sirius…Harry stifled down the familiar welling of misery he experienced whenever he thought of his godfather. It had been over a year now, but he still couldn't get used to Sirius not being in his life.

He brushed ash off his robes, and headed for the stairs. As he reached the landing, Mrs Weasley came out of the room he normally shared with Ron.

"HARRY!" She grabbed him to her and enfolded him in a smothering hug. "Oh my dear, I am so glad to see you. You poor boy, ill and all on your own with that dreadful man…oh dear I shouldn't talk about your professor like that, but I was just so worried about you. Are you all right, Harry?"

Harry prised himself off her shoulder sufficiently to speak.

"Yeah, thanks Mrs Weasley, I'm OK. And –"

Ron and Hermione had heard Mrs Weasley's shriek and were now bounding up the stairs. Hermione also threw her arms around him. Harry grinned through a mouthful of bushy hair.

"Hello, Hermione…hi there, Ron…."

"Harry, mate, how are you?" Ron slapped him on the shoulder.

"He looks very peaky," Mrs Weasley said, fretfully.

"Well, he was being looked after by Snape, wasn't he? 'Course he doesn't look too good, would you?" Ron snorted.

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but he was dragged downstairs.

"Hang on – my trunk –"

"Oh, don't mind that. You can sort it out later. Come and tell us all about it," Ron said eagerly. "I still can't believe you had to go through that…you must have been gutted when you realized you had to stay with Snape…"

"MAKE HIM SOME TEA!" Mrs Weasley called down the stairs after them. "I'LL BE DOWN IN A FEW MINUTES!"

Hermione put the kettle on, and they all settled around the kitchen table. Hermione was examining Harry closely, with a frown.

"Seriously, Harry, you really don't look too good. Did Snape forget to feed you, or something? I mean, I expect he did his best to ignore you and pretend you weren't even there…"

"Oh, it was being ill," he said evasively, failing to mention the six weeks of starvation. "Snape did his best, he was always giving me restorative potions…"

"Huh," Ron said darkly. "If Snape's been giving you potions, that's probably what's the matter with you."

"So what was wrong with you, Harry?" Hermione asked. Her face showed nothing but honest concern.

Harry shifted uncomfortably. He didn't know what to say.

"Don't let's talk about me," he said finally. "I've had a really dull summer. What about you? What have you been up to?"

Hermione, it seemed, had only arrived at Headquarters a few days ago. She had been concentrating on her NEWTs, she informed Harry. (At this, Ron put his head on the kitchen table with a hollow groan.) The Weasleys had been in London for most of the summer. Apparently they spent very little time at The Burrow, these days. Mr and Mrs Weasley thought Headquarters was safer, besides being more convenient for Order business.

"And I can tell you," Ron said bitterly, "it's been totally dull and boring here, as well. Oh, members of the Order pop in and out all the time, but it's secret this, and hush that, and they're always locking themselves away…Even Fred and George can't get past their anti-eavesdropper spells. But, hey, you've got to come and see Fred and George's joke shop in Diagon Alley. It is just so utterly cool. Amazing."

"Ginny's over there with Fred and George," Hermione chimed in. "She's got a summer job with them in the shop."

"Must be doing well, to need an assistant," Harry said.

"Yeah, they are…they're going to be the first rich Weasleys in generations…Lucky sods."

Harry looked down, uncomfortable again. Harry was now, as Ron put it, "bloody loaded". Number 12, Grimmauld Place had been left to Dumbledore. It had caused no end of problems, arranging transfer of ownership for a property that was unplottable, invisible to most, and to all intents and purposes did not exist. Everything else, Sirius had bequeathed to Harry. The Blacks were an old, rich family. Harry's vault at Gringotts was stuffed with gold.

Mrs Weasley came into the kitchen at that point, her arms full of linen.

"Now, Harry dear, let me make you something to eat…"

"No, thanks Mrs Weasley, I had lunch before I came, really…I'm not hungry." Harry assured her. "Snape's been making me eat loads.."

She raised an eyebrow disbelievingly and sniffed, but didn't comment. "Well, if that's really the case, perhaps you would all like to go and visit Diagon Alley before dinner. You look as if you could do with some fresh air, Harry. But make sure you stick together and in no circumstances leave the main street, understand?"

Harry was more than willing to go to Diagon Alley. He supposed he would get used to being at 12, Grimmauld Place eventually. But at the moment, everywhere he looked, he saw Sirius. And it was a good thing Kreacher had finally done them all a favour and died over the winter, because Harry didn't think he could have faced the house elf without a murder ensuing. Kreacher had been denied his dearest wish, however. He had not been beheaded, and his leathery face (thankfully) would not be leering down at them every time they went up or down the stairs.

"We can use the Floo from here to the joke shop," Ron told him. "Dad gets Podmore to keep a special eye on it."

* * *

I like to spend considerable time in my potions workroom during vacations. It is my opportunity to experiment without the distraction of children running round, with typical impertinence actually having fun. Or worse: sitting in front of me during Potions classes (where I could at least make sure they enjoyed the experience as little as I did). I preferred being at Hogwarts on my own. Even the portraits and the ghosts had learned not to attempt small talk with me. Not unless they wanted to find out what effects certain curses have beyond the grave, at any rate. 

So, naturally, now Dumbledore had imprisoned me here, it was the very last place in the world I wanted to be.

I could not even concentrate properly on my work. I was strangely abstracted. And I kept having to stop what I was doing to write down my notes. This was irritating, and interrupted the flow of my experiments. I realized I had become accustomed to Potter traipsing around after me writing down what I was saying. Hmph. So the boy was not wholly useless after all. I might even give Gryffindor a point or two on the strength of it. It could even be worth doing so just to watch Minerva McGonagall trying to figure out what I was up to, and suspecting some deep-laid plot for the undoing of her House. Although, truth said, if I were spotted giving house points to Potter, the staff would have collective apoplexy and probably haul me off to the hospital wing for intensive investigation.

I gave up on the research, and went for a walk instead. It would have been a good day for flying, I noted. Bright, clear skies.

The grounds stretched ahead of me, beautiful and empty.

I gave up on the walk.

Perhaps I should read a book, I thought. I could always lose myself in the footnotes of an intriguing treatise, such as the one I had just finished on the special properties of Filiander weed as investigated in 1723.

However, I seemed to have read all of the ones in which I could muster faint interest.

Perhaps an afternoon nap?

I was not tired.

I became impatient with myself. I was a man of enterprise and resource, self-contained and self-assured, a man with no hidden shallows. Surely I could think of some productive way to occupy my time.

At this point, a familiar burning on my left arm started up. I groaned aloud. Not that. Not now. The summons of the Dark Lord through the Mark on my arm was not only painful physically, but also it served as an unpleasant reminder of times before. Had I actually required a memory aid for my service as a Death Eater, which I did not, I would have sent myself an owl. However: I was accustomed to this. I simply needed to endure. I steeled myself to do so. The Mark would get steadily more painful, and then it would abruptly cease to burn. The Dark Lord would at that point have stopped his summoning. He and his minions would not be awaiting my arrival, after all. It was not as if though they would be expecting me.

* * *

The joke shop was, as Ron had said, amazing. It was crammed to the rafters with Weasley Wizarding Wheezes in all sizes, colours and shapes. A harmless-looking beach ball made Harry jump when he walked by, for a screaming figure exploded out of it and then wobbled backwards and forwards laughing. There was a whole rack of sweets and chocolate. Harry spotted Ton Tongue Toffee, and grinned. Fred and George were doing such a brisk trade they barely had time to greet Harry. Ginny waved, beaming, as she wrapped a parcel up for a customer. 

"C'mon," Ron said. "Let's go and get an ice-cream."

Diagon Alley was filled with bustle, noise, and strange spicy scents. Harry felt dizzied by it. After the days stuck in isolation at the Dursley household, then quietly alone at Hogwarts with Snape, the clamour overwhelmed him. He gazed around with almost as much awe as he had the very first time he had been here. Ron and Hermione laughed at him.

They chose sundaes in exotic flavours, and sat outside so they could watch the colourful sights of Diagon Alley parading past. As ever, there were some distinctly peculiar characters about. A number were wrapped in obscuring mufflers despite the warmth of the summer sun. A few turned in excitement when they realized the famous Harry Potter was sitting there, trickling ice cream down his throat with his head tipped back.

Harry, by now, was used to such attention, and ignored them.

"Harry," Hermione said to him suddenly, her eyes caught by a flash of green as Harry dribbled more ice-cream into the back of his throat. "What's that round your neck?"

"Oh.." Harry smiled slightly. "It was my birthday present from Snape. Look: it's a Fireheart stone."

"You _what_?" Ron exclaimed incredulously. "Why would Snape give you a _Fireheart_ of all things? Is it booby-trapped?"

"No, of course not. Although it did set me on fire the first night I wore it…"

Harry explained how he had fallen asleep wearing the Fireheart, and how, trapped in nightmares, his energies had exploded through the stone to form a flaming cocoon. He did not mention the argument with Snape that had gone before, however. Nor, for some reason, did he find it necessary to mention that he had woken up the next morning cradled in Snape's arms.

Nor that when he first awoke he had found this situation both comfortable and comforting.

Ron was aghast at the incident with the stone. "He's trying to kill you, Harry!" he said hoarsely.

"Don't be ridiculous," Harry replied sharply. "How many times has he saved my life now? I can't even remember. I've lost count."

"Yeah, but Harry, don't you see.. he must have known you wouldn't know about Firehearts…and that you have nightmares…"

"I told him I knew about Fireheart stones," Harry said shortly. "Anyway. I don't know why you're both looking at me like that. It's no big deal. He said it was just a token present, that it's tradition, and most wizards get one when they come of age…"

Ron was still staring at him, however.

"A – token – present?"

"Well?" Harry didn't understand what Ron was getting at.

"Have I got one of them, then? Has Bill? Or Charlie? Or- "

Harry wondered whether Ron was going to list every person he knew who did not possess a Fireheart stone, and wished he would get to the point.

"What Ron is trying to say," Hermione intervened, frowning at Ron as his voice got more hysterical, "is that Fireheart stones are incredibly rare these days. They also cost a fortune."

"They're expensive!" Harry exclaimed, shocked. He had never bothered to inquire about the prices of such stones.

"Yes, extremely. Mostly, nowadays, if people have one it's been handed down in the family. Some of the really old families have several in their keeping."

Harry unclasped his hand from around the stone and stared at it with new eyes.

"So you think Snape spent a _fortune _on me?"

Hermione was looking thoughtful. "No, I think it's more likely he gave you his own old one. If his father's dead, he probably inherited a Fireheart from him, and Snape will wear the one that used to belong to his father himself. It's tradition. And as far we know Snape hasn't got any children to pass the stone he used to wear onto, so…"

Ron now appeared to be having difficulty breathing. "You think that Snape has given Harry his own old Fireheart? You think he sees Harry as a _son?_ The Snapes must have bloody funny attitudes towards their kids if so, Snape _hates_ Harry…"

"When he's not saving his life," Hermione reminded him. "But actually, I think that's probably got something to do with it. Snape himself might not even realize it. But do you remember Dumbledore saying that when a wizard saves another wizard's life, a bond is formed between them?"

Harry nodded. He did remember. Ron still looked too shell-shocked for coherent response.

"Well, the bond goes both ways. Snape has saved your life so many times, I think he's connected himself to you."

At this, Ron gave a weird groaning noise. The thought was just too awful for him to contemplate. Snape, evil greasy Potions Master, with some kind of intimate magical bond to _Harry_?

Harry, however, was turning the idea over and over in his head. He had no connections other than with his school friends. Not really. You could hardly count the Dursleys. His parents were dead. Sirius, his godfather, was dead. Dumbledore.. well, his relationship with Dumbledore had been even more distant in the year just gone than in the one preceding it. Lupin, Tonks, Mad-Eye: they were all great, but they weren't really close to him. And Mr and Mrs Weasley had their own family to worry about, welcoming as they were to Harry.

Harry rather liked the idea of having a real, proper connection with somebody. Even if the somebody was Snape - who had, to be fair, taken really very good care of him since rescuing him from the Dursleys. It was just, well, unfortunate that Snape didn't actually like Harry….

Still: he had given him the stone. He looked at it fondly, and then with curiosity. The blue flame at its heart was twisting frantically. How strange…but perhaps it was just a peculiarity of Firehearts. Harry shrugged, changed the topic of conversation, and continued to enjoy his icecream.

* * *

I muttered to myself. The Mark was still burning, long after it had normally ceased to do so. This was odd. I took a painkilling potion. The effects on this particular kind of pain would be minimal, but perhaps better than nothing. 

Still it burned: even more fiercely, if anything. I began to feel uneasy.

What was it Dumbledore had said in his letter: something about the Dark Lord having found new ways to manipulate his Death Eaters through the Dark Mark?

My unease worsened. And my arm _hurt_.

* * *

_A/N To reviewers… a big thank you. I love getting feedback, and it's so encouraging to know that people are reading and hopefully enjoying what I write. Particular thanks to those of you who review regularly, I look forward to your comments every time I update. But to all of you, thanks…Hope I haven't missed anyone off…._

Athenakitty

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	12. The Siren Spell

_As ever...thanks to reviewers...and please review!_

Harry, Hermione and Ron finished their sundaes.

"What shall we do now?" Ron asked.

"Bookshop," Hermione suggested, a gleam in her eyes.

Ron groaned. "You've been in there practically every day since you came to London!"

"Yes, well," Hermione responded primly, "I don't have access to magic books while I'm at home. I need to catch up."

"I suppose we could look at the books for school next year.." Harry said, somewhat unwillingly.

They were expecting their final year to be very difficult. They were all taking a full batch of NEWTs. Harry was still well ahead of most of his classmates in Defence Against the Dark Arts, and he was doing all right in most of his other subjects. He continued to struggle with Potions. Snape had only allowed him and Ron into his NEWT classes at Dumbledore's special request. They had both managed Es in their OWLs, which was better than they had feared. Even Neville had scraped an 'Acceptable'. The rumour was that all of Snape's students had done significantly better in their OWLs than the marks he gave them in class would have suggested. Hermione had received a special commendation from the examiners.

Harry thought it was amazing his studies were still so much on track. His sixth year had been no less eventful than any of his others at Hogwarts. In some respects, the year had been what Hermione called "phoney war". Voldemort was still building his forces and had made no overt strikes. Dumbledore continued to co-ordinate the defences; as far as Harry could tell, the main efforts had been directed at mobilizing allies and raising awareness. There had been no public, outright clashes. The year had however included the Hogsmeade fiasco, when a bunch of Death Eaters had attempted to kidnap Harry as he wandered alone by the Shrieking Shack, brooding over the death of Sirius. It was Snape who had fought them off, all of them, in an impressive demonstration of raw wizarding power. In the process, he had blown his cover as a spy and ended up in St Mungo's for a week. After that, Harry had paid more attention to the instruction that he should not visit Hogsmeade unless accompanied by grown wizards.

Thinking of Snape, his fingers strayed to his Fireheart once more.

It was almost buzzing now. Harry could feel it vibrating against his neck. Strange…

"Hermione!" he said. "Can you help me find a book about the properties of Fireheart stones?"

"Oh yes," she said enthusiastically. "The very best is Alfredo's _Heart of the Fire: the mysteries of the magical stones._ Let's go and see if they have it in…"

Harry blinked and shook his head. How Hermione absorbed and retained so much information was astonishing to him. The bookshop did have the volume; Harry bought it. He slung it into a bag, intending to read it after dinner that evening.

But when they returned to 12, Grimmauld Place, Lupin, Mad-Eye and Tonks had dropped by, to welcome Harry to Headquarters. Fred, George and Ginny arrived home from the joke shop shortly after. The evening turned into an impromptu party. Butterbeer flowed. Fred and George demonstrated a number of their recent inventions, to great acclaim from everybody except Mrs Weasley. Despite the success of the joke shop, she obviously was still not entirely reconciled to it.

Harry laughed and shouted with the rest.

He didn't think about the strange behaviour of his Fireheart stone, and forgot he had intended to consult his new book.

* * *

As the evening wore on, the Mark on my arm burned yet more fiercely. It now hurt too much for me to even consider engaging in some useful activity. I sat on my couch, cursing, and wondering where Dumbledore was. I had tried to contact the Order, but the emergency wards would not allow even my head access to the Floo network. I was trapped here. I had sent an owl to Dumbledore, but as I had no notion of where he was, I could not tell when help might arrive. Or, indeed, whether it would at all. 

Surely, I told myself, this would stop some time soon. Surely. It must….

I paced around to distract my mind from the pain in my arm. It was now pulsing from the tips of my fingers to my neck. My arm felt molten. I decided that walking helped. Flinging a thicker cloak around myself, I headed for the grounds. My breathing was harsh and ragged, and I stumbled rather.

I was used to pain.

I would endure.

The spell struck me as I staggered across the front lawn.

"_Come to me."_

My eyes, half-closed in pain, snapped open. I gazed around, startled. The grounds looked deserted as ever.

No: he couldn't be doing this. Not in Hogwarts. Not without eye contact.

"_Come to me."_

The voice was alluring, a silver coating to its menace. I gritted my teeth and tried to head back to the castle. The compulsion to head in the opposite direction, and make for the gates, beat over me in waves.

"_Come to me_."

The Siren spell, I thought dizzily. Voldemort had somehow managed to find a way to cast the Siren spell on me. He would force me to rush immediately to his side, or suffer the consequences.

Not only my arm, but my whole body, turned molten when I recalled what those consequences would be.

It had to be whatever experiments he had performed on the Dark Mark. He must have found a way to use the Mark to cast spells on its wearers, even where no eye contact existed. Ordinarily, the Mark, disgusting indelible brand that it was, could only act to summon; to call Death Eaters to the side of their Lord.

The Siren spell was not a summons. It was a demand. An insistent demand, that throbbed through every cell of my body. Foggily, I dredged my memory for the counter-charms.

There were several counter-charms to the Siren spell. And they all had one thing in common. They could only be cast by a third person. You could not release yourself from its hold once you had been caught by it. And here was I, alone…I sent out a silent cry to Dumbledore._ Help me…_

_"Come to me."_

I wanted to go to him.

I had to go to him.

The pain of the compulsion overrode even the pain in my arm, from which this deadly spell was emanating.

I would have chopped it off if I had thought it would help; but the Dark Mark was imprinted on more than my fore-arm. The binding went deep.

"_Come to me."_

I shouted in protest. Nobody heard. There was nobody here except the house elves, and they would all be in the kitchens.

I fell to my knees. My body, against my will, was trying desperately to reach the Hogwarts gates.

_No. _I tried to master it, to force it still. Endure. Stay. Be still. Endure.

"_Come to me_."

Crab-wise, I crawled across the grounds. I collapsed from time to time, as the impulses from my brain sent out contradictory signals. _This way. No. That…No…_ My arm was on fire. My whole body was on fire. My bones were melting in a thousand suns. I had to go to him, had to leave, had to get outside of Hogwarts so I could Apparate to the side of my Lord…

The grounds are extensive. I do not know for how many hours this creeping progress went on. My knees and hands began to resemble raw meat. I had torn my own lip through biting it so hard. I barely noticed.

Finally: the gates. I yelled in triumph, even while the portion of my brain which continued to hold out against the agonies screamed in warning.

I tottered grimly onwards.

"_Come to me_."

Soon, there would be an end to this, soon…there were the gates…I just had to get through them, and then I could leave, answer this irresistible call…

The first time the emergency wards rose to prevent me leaving, it did not hurt. It was like running into a very thick mattress: yielding, but implacable.

As I continued to flail against the invisible barrier, the wards intensified in their efforts to repel me.

With the pain from the Siren spell already coursing through my veins like broken glass, I barely noticed.

"_Come to me."_

I growled in frustration, and flung myself against the wards once more.

This time I felt it. It was a lightning shock. Sharp, intense, fast. It hurt, but the wards were still warning me. They had not yet turned the full force of their power against me.

_"Come to me_."

I could not. I knew then that I was going to die. Here. Now. On my hands and knees at the gates of Hogwarts. The Dark Lord would be denied his prey.

* * *

"And _then_," George said, mopping his streaming eyes with his hand. "The hag turns to the vampire, and _she_ says – " 

A roar of laughter erupted.

The kitchen was ablaze with lights and merry noise. Harry laughed along with his friends. He felt warm, and slightly fuzzy.

The Ancient and Noble House of Black would have had a fit, he thought, if they could have seen this. (_Oh, Sirius…_) The kitchen was redolent with the aroma of Mrs Weasley's excellent cooking. Bottles of butterbeer, hot mugs of gingered tea, other spicy beverages Harry was not familiar with: they all combined to create an atmosphere of festivity and cheer.

Harry felt happy.

Hermione was chatting with Lupin about some charm or other she thought fascinating. Ron was giggling over some joke or other that Fred had just played on Ginny, who looked torn between anger and amusement. Mad-Eye's mad eye was rolling furiously in his head.

It stopped at Harry's chest.

"What's that, boy?" he asked in his growly voice.

"Oh – my Fireheart stone," Harry said, rather proudly.

"Hmm. Feeling all right, are you?"

"Yes, perfectly," Harry said in surprise. "Never better. Why?"

"Hmm. Your Fireheart doesn't seem to think so. Look at it."

Harry frowned at the stone, lifting it from his chest by its cord. The blue flame was whirling furiously. When he touched the surface of the stone itself, he yelped.

"OW!"

"Hot, is it?" Mad-Eye said. "It's a warning, lad. That stone's channelling."

"Well, it isn't me," Harry repeated firmly. "Look. I'm absolutely OK."

"Can see that. Magical stones aren't really my thing. Something's wrong, though, boy. I can tell you that."

Harry took the stone off his neck and stared at it for a while longer. He decided he had better not wear it if the stone was in such a volatile and unpredictable mood. He didn't really understand Firehearts yet, after all, and he had no wish to blow himself up in the kitchen of the Order of the Phoenix Headquarters. Better put it away for now, he decided. Much safer.

He dropped it in his pocket, resolving to have a really thorough read of that book he had bought the next day, and picked up his Butterbeer.

This was an excellent party.

* * *

I was being torn apart. The Siren spell was Voldemort's hook through my heart. I had to go to him. It went beyond longing, beyond desire. It was compulsion. Leave. Leave now. Come to me. Come to me or die. 

The wards, with equal ferocity, were repelling me. You will stay, they told me. Stay. You may not pass. Stay or die.

The two opposing forces collided in my flesh. I could no longer think. My awareness was limited to a haze of red agony. I had no sense of my surroundings any more. I was just a blaze of pain in this single moment of existence that seemed to extend for eternity. The unutterable language of hurt streamed from my lips in a thin keening.

With my last conscious thought, I willed for death, and wept silently for the help that was not to come.

Nobody ever had come when I cried for help. Not in my entire life. Oh....just the one time, just the one time, when Dumbledore gave me my second chance....Where was Dumbledore?

And had I not always known I would end like this?

Alone. In agony.

I abandoned myself to the furnace.


	13. Hedwig's Warning

_Well reviewers, I agree. Harry needs to get a brain._

_And here we see the cogs finally beginning to turn. But will it be in time?_

The Order used owls as little as possible. They thought it would attract attention. And only certain owls could even find 12, Grimmauld Place.

Hedwig was one of them. Harry was in the midst of a fierce argument with Ron, Fred and George about the relative merits of their favourite Quidditch teams when she arrived and began to beat her great snowy wings against the window. Mad-Eye and Tonks had already left, saying they had business to attend to. Lupin still lounged at the table, chatting to Mrs Weasley.

Harry looked up in surprise. He had left Hedwig at Hogwarts, thinking she would have more fun there. She would have been more or less confined to quarters if he had brought her with him to London. He supposed he wasn't too surprised she had followed him; Hedwig loathed being left behind.

Mrs Weasley let her in, and Harry held out his wrist for her to perch on. She ignored this, however, and swooped around the kitchen screeching. Fred and George ducked as she skimmed above their heads.

Then she landed on Harry. She did not nestle onto his wrist or his shoulder, however, but proceeded to peck him. Hard. Often. Her huge amber eyes stared meaningfully into his own.

"What is it, Hedwig?" Harry asked softly, wishing he could understand her. He checked her carefully, but she bore no message. "Has someone sent you, or have you come of your own accord?"

She flapped her wings and squawked urgently, and then flew once more around the kitchen in an agitated manner.

"She's come from Hogwarts," Harry said abruptly. "I think she's trying to tell us there is something wrong at Hogwarts. Hedwig's clever, she must have realized she needed to tell someone…"

Mrs Weasley looked worried and bewildered. "Hogwarts? I thought only Severus was at Hogwarts."

"Then maybe there's something wrong with Snape." Harry's heart began to beat faster.

He ignored Mrs Weasley's exasperated interjection. "_Professor _Snape."

A thought occurred to him, and he pulled the Fireheart stone out of his pocket. "This has been going all funny as well.. Hermione thinks it used to belong to Snape…could the stone –well, _know -_ if there really is something up with him?"

Lupin rose and peered at the Fireheart; its blue flame still leaped and blazed furiously.

"It's certainly Severus' old stone," he said slowly. "It's very distinctive. I remember him wearing it in his final year at Hogwarts."

Hermione had jumped up and retrieved the book Harry had bought. She leafed through its pages.

"Firehearts as protections…how to channel your energies….guarding yourself while you sleep… controlling explosions…oh, here, let's see…Firehearts as warnings…"

She scanned the pages swiftly; Harry tried to read over her shoulder but she was turning the pages too fast for him to keep up.

"Well," Hermione said finally, looking up. Her face was anxious. "Firehearts are keyed to the state of their wearer. But occasionally stones can forge such a strong bond with previous owners, they will still respond to any serious disturbances in their life-force fields. That's especially the case if a stone has been in one family for generations."

Harry swallowed. "So, the stone would react if Snape's life was in danger. Snape's in trouble. We have to go to Hogwarts."

Mrs Weasley and Lupin exchanged loaded glances, and then looked down.

"What?" Harry demanded, staring disbelievingly from one to the other. "Why are you looking like that? We have to do something!"

"Unfortunately," Lupin said kindly, but with sorrow in his voice. "Professor Dumbledore has raised the emergency wards at Hogwarts. Nobody can get in. And nobody can get out. I'm sorry, Harry, but the best we can do is alert Dumbledore immediately. If there is a problem, Severus has most likely already done so, anyway, but… Molly, will you take care of that?"

Mrs Weasley nodded and headed out of the kitchen.

"So we're just going to leave him!" Harry said angrily.

"Harry," Lupin replied gently. "What else can we do? We cannot reach him. And he is probably fine, anyhow. If he is inside the house and has hurt himself, the house elves will take care of him, you know. How long has that stone of yours been acting strangely?"

"Hours," Harry said dully. "I didn't know… I didn't realize… Hours."

"Then in all likelihood, Severus has already contacted Dumbledore, and whatever the problem was will doubtless already have been sorted out." Lupin's voice was soothing.

Hedwig swooped across the room and gave Lupin a particularly vicious peck on the head.

_Go, Hedwig,_ thought Harry. He was still not convinced, either.

A thought struck him.

"Perhaps I can get through the wards!" he blurted out. "Dumbledore must have told the emergency wards to let me pass, because I came here after he had already raised them! OK, that's it then, I'll just go and check up on him…"

Mrs Weasley had returned and heard Harry's words.

"Harry," she said sharply. "You will do no such thing. If there is danger at Hogwarts, you are the last person we would send to sort it out."

"But I'm the only one who can get through the wards!" Harry protested, raising his voice.

"No," she said with finality. "And I have removed the Floo powder from the room upstairs, so let that be an end to it."

Harry stared at her, his mouth dropping. She had taken the Floo powder! Then that was it; he had no means of getting to Hogwarts, and he just knew something was badly wrong.

"Harry, I am sorry," Mrs Weasley sighed, looking at Harry's distraught face. "But all we can do is wait for Dumbledore. And we don't even know for sure there is anything to worry about."

We do, Harry thought rebelliously, looking at his Fireheart. Now he knew what it was reacting to, that violently gyrating blue flame made his breath come faster.

He banged out of the kitchen and stamped upstairs to the room he shared with Ron. His mind was working furiously. But he could think of no way round this. What could he possibly do?

A few moments later, Ron and Hermione popped their heads round the door, rather nervously.

"Harry," Hermione said, "Are you all right?"

"No, I'm not!" Harry snarled at her. He was hunched up on his bed, arms around his knees. "The man who just saved my life, again, and has spent the last couple of weeks looking after me is in trouble, and nobody is doing anything about it!"

Hermione and Ron sat on the bed. "Saved your life again?" Hermione inquired. She narrowed her eyes. "Harry, this illness of yours. What happened, exactly?"

Harry looked down, flushing. "The Dursleys beat me up, OK? They locked me in a cupboard and just left me. Then Snape came and got me, and took care of me.. I was really ill for nearly a week…"

"The Dursleys beat you up?" Ron repeated incredulously, failing to notice that Hermione was frowning at him and shaking her head. "Those fat, useless Muggles? Bloody hell, Harry! Why didn't you tell anyone? Or do something about it?"

"Because," Harry said through gritted teeth, "Dumbledore told me that at all costs I had to stay at the Dursleys for six weeks. BECAUSE, I didn't even have my wand, and how was I supposed to get in touch with the wizarding world without owls? And BECAUSE, it is difficult to do anything at all when you are locked unconscious in a cupboard!"

And because, he added silently to himself, he hadn't wanted to tell his friends. He didn't want people to know.

Ron's mouth sagged open on a long "oh".

"Harry," Hermione said hesitantly, "is there any chance… do you think…well, could this be a trap?"

She bit her lip, and watched his reaction with apprehension. This was, after all, very similar to the way in which Voldemort had lured Harry to the Department of Mysteries the previous year. He had sent him visions of Sirius being tortured there, and Harry had gone dashing to the rescue, only to end up in need of rescue himself. And Sirius had died.

Harry slammed his hands against the bedcovers. "No," he insisted. "It isn't a trap. From what you said, Hermione, only me or Snape could have that effect on the Fireheart, right? And it isn't me, is it? So whatever's disturbing the stone, it must be coming from Snape, not Voldemort. Right?"

"Er…" Ron put in. He looked as if he expected Harry to punch him at any second. "But what if Snape is…er….helping to set the trap…..?"

Hermione grabbed Harry's shoulders to prevent him lunging at Ron.

"Stop it," she said sharply. "That will hardly help. Listen, Harry. We're just trying to figure it out and consider the possibilities, OK?"

Harry nodded curtly. The debacle at the Department of Mysteries, and then the near-kidnap at Hogsmeade, had taught him the value of reflection before action. At least in theory: his instincts remained the same. He wanted to charge in and do something.

"OK," Hermione said. "Ron thinks Snape might be setting you up. Ron, why would Snape do that? He has helped Harry on loads of occasions. I mean, he rescued him from the Death Eaters in Hogsmeade just last year…"

"Could have been a trick," Ron argued. He had thought this for a long while. "Snape pretends to rescue Harry, gets himself hurt just badly enough to be convincing, and then, hey presto. Dumbledore has lost his spy in You-Know-Who's camp, and You-Know-Who has got a spy in the Order who people trust because he is supposed to have saved Harry's life…"

"But surely Voldemort would have wanted Snape to get rid of Harry by now? Or at least hand him over?" Hermione asked logically.

"Will you two shut up!" Harry snapped. His hands were knotted tightly in frustration. "Snape hates Voldemort. And he could have polished me off any number of times, and hasn't."

"Why are you so sure Snape hates You-Know-Who?" Ron demanded flatly. "I don't trust him. And, well, I reckon I might be able to help you use the Floo, Harry, but you've got to convince me this isn't all just some big trap…."

Harry looked up in hope at Ron's words, then chewed his lip. "Because of everything he has done for the Order. And because…oh, because of what Voldemort has done to him!"

"What's that, then?" Ron demanded. Harry was silent. "Well, if you don't trust me, Harry, I'm not helping you and that's that."

Harry drummed his fingers on the bed and made an aggravated noise in the back of his throat. "Oh….but don't tell anyone else, OK?" He told them how Voldemort had mutilated Snape.

There was a shocked silence.

"You're kidding…" Ron breathed.

"Look, don't talk about it! And never mention it to anyone," Harry said, with force. "And I was totally helpless when he picked me up from the Dursleys, he could have hurt me or killed me easily. No-one else was there, he could have done anything. And he didn't, he healed me. Satisfied? All right, then. You said you could help. How?"

Ron grimaced. Harry could tell he still wasn't entirely convinced Snape was really on the side of the Order. But he could hardly deny Snape had not hurt Harry, and there had been ample opportunity for him to do so.

"_Please_, Ron," Harry said finally after a long, silent moment. His eyes met Ron's.

"Well." Ron heaved a sigh. "All right….I only hope I'm not going to regret this though, Harry…I must be mad. But you don't suppose Fred and George let my mother control the supply of Floo powder in this house, do you? They have a secret stash. And I know where it is…So OK, mate, you win. I'll get you some, all right?"

Ron slipped quietly out of their bedroom, muttering under his breath. "Mum is so going to kill me…."

Hermione looked even more worried now. "Oh! Oh, Harry, you can't go on your own. What if something dreadful really is happening?"

Harry was resolute. "Not much choice, Hermione. Nobody else has a chance of getting past the wards. And think about it: if nothing can get into or out of Hogwarts, then Snape must be stuck there on his own, and he must be hurt in some way…Perhaps in the grounds, if the house elves aren't helping him…"

That did make sense. Hermione nodded, reluctantly. She looked broodingly at the Fireheart stone. Then the pupils of her eyes dilated. "Harry…" she breathed. "Look…"

The stone in his hand was darkening before their eyes. Its blues and greens were shading into colours so deep they could almost have been black. Hermione grabbed the book on Firehearts and ruffled through it frantically. "Colour changes," she muttered to herself. "Significance of colour changes."

She found the right passage and looked up, horrified.

"Harry," she whispered. "I think Snape is dying…"


	14. Ties that Bind

_Thanks to reviewers. Hello, Chainmailgirl and Potions and Snitches._

_By popular request, a quick update...Would be nice to get over the 100 reviews mark with this chapter??? - so I can have a party..._

* * *

Harry crashed out of the Floo in Dumbledore's office with his usual lack of grace. He leaped up without bothering to flick the ash from his robes. 

"_I think Snape is dying_," he heard Hermione's voice saying, over and over in his head. _"Snape is dying.. Snape is dying…"_

He was clutching the Marauder's map; he scoured it urgently by the light of his wand. And there it was: a little speck labelled '_Severus Snape'_, completely unmoving, by the gates of Hogwarts. To Harry's relief, the map showed the Castle to be empty otherwise. No Death Eater invasion then.

Snape was on the map. Did that mean he was still alive? Would the map still show someone if they were…dead?

Harry charged through the darkened castle, and burst outside. It was still quite some way to the castle gates.

"_Accio_, Firebolt!" he called.

He hopped up and down nervously, and then saw it, whizzing towards him through the night. Yes! He grabbed it, and flung himself on to it. In this way, he arrived at the gates with remarkable speed.

Snape's body was difficult to see by the faint light of starlight and Harry's wand. Cloaked in black as he was, and screwed up into a tight ball, he blended into the shadows.

Harry hurled himself off his broomstick. His chest was heaving as if he had actually run the distance from the Castle.

He knelt by Snape's side, and tentatively reached out a hand. "Please," he whispered. "Be alive still…I should have realized, I should have come sooner….please, still be here…"

Snape was alive. Harry closed his eyes briefly in relief. But as he crouched by the huddled form, he realized that, even unconscious, Snape's body was racked by fierce, deep tremors. His face, to Harry's questing touch, was pouring with sweat. What was happening here, he wondered, bewildered. _Cruciatus_, gone on too long? But there was no-one else present. And why was Snape at the gates? He must have known the emergency wards would not let him pass.

Harry was shaking too, in panic and anxiety. If the Fireheart was right, Snape's tortured body couldn't last much longer. His systems were failing. Harry had to figure this one out. Hermione, he moaned to himself, if only I could have brought you with me…

At this point, Snape convulsed. His fingers, claw-like, reached blindly for the gates. Harry saw the lightning shock blast his body. The wards, he thought, in horror. He yanked at Snape's robes, and rolled him quickly away from the gates. Snape mindlessly clutched towards them. Harry, arms around him, could feel Snape's heart stuttering like a dying bird in his chest. He clutched frantically into his pockets, where he had stowed the bottle of Griffin Elixir Snape had given him just that day. _One-two-three-four_ – he counted the maximum dosage out with care. _Hang on in there_, he thought desperately.

A compulsion, some sort of compulsion...A summoning… The Siren spell? Harry knew this, yes, he did, he had studied it with Flitwick. _Finite Incantatem_ didn't work, but there was a counter-charm, and he knew it, he knew it….

"_SIRENUM SILENCIO!" _he yelled. His breath caught, had it worked…?

It had. Snape's body shuddered for a long moment, and then went still. Harry touched his face; he was still breathing, although very shallowly, and his muscles had relaxed into the normal slackness of unconsciousness.

Harry let out a long, quavery sigh. Thank goodness…But still, Snape had been through a terrible ordeal. He needed to get him back to the castle. He couldn't conjure a stretcher; he did not know how yet. Vaguely Harry recalled from Muggle medicine that you needed to keep people still after major trauma. He had an idea that flopping Snape's body all over the place under his inexpert levitation would not do him any good. "_Petrificus Totalus_!" Snape's body snapped into frozen stillness. Maybe that hadn't been quite the right spell to use, Harry thought uneasily. "_Mobilicorpus!_" That was right, he was sure.

Levitating Snape's rigid body before him, Harry made for Snape's chambers. He took great care navigating Snape's body so he did not suffer further hurt. With relief, Harry arrived at Snape's dungeon rooms. He still knew the password, fortunately.

The rooms were lit. Harry winced when he saw the state of Snape's hands and knees, which were raw, bloody and encrusted with dirt. He did not like to intrude into Snape's own private room, so he laid him down on the spare bed where he himself had stayed. Shock, Harry thought. People who have been hurt badly suffer from shock. Need to keep him warm…He slung several blankets over him.

He wasn't entirely sure what to do next. He hoped his friends had managed to get hold of Dumbledore.

* * *

It was like being reborn. The white-hot agony vanished, instantly, as if doused by buckets of icy water. I still shook and ached and throbbed with the after-effects, but oh, the relief! So Dumbledore had come after all…gratitude surged through me in great rolling waves. I had thought I was about to disintegrate into the final void, and yet my vital signs felt surprisingly steady. I understood why when I recognized the taste of Griffin Elixir on my tongue. 

Although fuzzily aware, my mind still seemed disconnected from my body and I was not able to move or speak. I was unable to make response, then, when I gradually realized that the voice I was hearing belonged not to Albus, but to Harry Potter.

I had absolutely no idea how Potter came to be back at Hogwarts when I had personally sent him on his way – was it really earlier that very same day?- but at that point I did not much care. I was simply too relieved.

Full body bind was not precisely the spell I would have recommended, were he able to consult me, but still, never mind, never mind. From the taste in my mouth, the boy had attained unexpected heights of intelligence in giving me some of his elixir. He was also managing to transport me home in a relatively pain-free manner. One had to be grateful.

A soft bed…blankets…this was all good. I would even have thanked him, if I could. Only he had not yet taken the body bind off me. I would have quite liked to try the experiment of movement round about then.

I could sense his presence, sitting on the corner of the bed next to me. He seemed uncertain what to do next.

"I'm so relieved you're alive," he said. As I was unable to respond in any way, I presumed he was simply expressing his feelings aloud. I would have rolled my eyes if I could. "Don't worry, Dumbledore should be on his way. He'll know what to do."

I could have told him myself. If he would just take his binding spell off me…

"You look very still," he said anxiously. "I do hope you're all right…I wish you would move, or something."

Move? I thought indignantly. I cannot move, you idiot boy, because you have put me in a _full body bind_.

And then, apparently, forgotten this small fact.

He gave my shoulder a clumsy, familiar pat. "I couldn't believe it, when I realized what was wrong with the Fireheart. I'd never have forgiven myself. The stone had been telling me all day that you were in trouble, and I just kept on ignoring it. I don't know what I'd have done if you'd, if you'd, well, died… I still feel so guilty about Sirius, you know…"

He babbled on in this vein for quite some time, plucking at my robes occasionally like a three-year-old. 'Sirius this.' 'My godfather that.' As the pain in my body receded, my irritation rose. Why couldn't the boy save my life, well, _silently_? The human body is an amazingly resilient thing. Less than one hour after fearing for my life, I was reflecting woefully on the prospects for my sanity if I had to listen to Potter on the topic of his godfather for much longer.

Perhaps I had not been rescued after all. Perhaps I had died, and this was instead some sort of special inner circle of hell, reserved uniquely for Severus Snape. I was doomed to lie there, unable to move, while Potter pawed at my body and spilled his adolescent angst into my unwilling ears.

"I do hope you're going to be all right," he said again. He sounded very young. "I really don't know what more to do. I hope the elixir has done you good. I hope Ron and Hermione manage to find Dumbledore…I daren't even go back to Headquarters myself to ask for help, in case anything happens to you while I'm away…"

Very touching. Noble Gryffindor idiot that he was, he would probably have done as much for any tramp he found in the street. I should hardly be flattered by his concern.

"You know," he went on, "Hermione reckons there's some kind of connection between me and you now. Isn't that funny?"

Oh, quite. Hilarious. Watch me laugh without my lips moving.

"She says it's because you've saved my life so many times, and probably that's why you gave me the Fireheart, without even realizing it…"

Hmm! Granger might even be right about that, I thought with surprise. I hadn't really considered the matter. It had just seemed an appropriate gift after my encounter with the Dursleys, and in the face of the knowledge I had acquired about his deplorable upbringing.

A further thought struck me.

No. Oh, no….

I thought it rather likely that Potter had indeed saved my life. Just as I, so often (_too_ often), had saved his. I meditated with misgiving on what might happen to the wizard life-bond in such circumstances. Especially when he wore my own old Fireheart round my neck….I would have flopped back with a groan were such an action possible for me. As it was I could only sink more deeply into my own depression. If I were fated to share such a link with anyone, an unwanted intrusion into my solitary and self-sufficient world, why on earth did it have to be with _Potter_?

"You know, I actually think it's kind of nice," he burbled on.

I knew he didn't think I could hear him. I wondered if he never talked to his friends, since he seemed to find it so necessary to inflict the inner workings of his head onto my apparently unconscious form. I supposed it was true I made a more effective listener when in this condition.

"I don't really have a family any more. Friends are great, and I've got lots of those…but I sort of like the idea of someone being there for me, well, just because…whether or not they even like me…"

And did he think this might apply to _me_???

"That's you, really, isn't it? I know you don't like me. But you're always looking out for me. I don't think I ever really said thank you to you properly for that…"

Finally: he had said something which showed a glimmering of sense. No, Potter, I thought acerbically: you never did appear even to notice, let alone appreciate, what I was doing on your behalf.

"So I am sorry about that. But you can't really blame me, can you? You were so horrible to me from the minute I arrived here, glaring at me and shouting at me, and saying I was arrogant and all that…"

Because, I thought indignantly, that was quite true! But another part of my mind was whispering that actually I was being rather unfair. An abused and neglected orphan, dropped suddenly into the magical world and finding himself a celebrity, a star Quidditch player, the child wonder of the Wizarding World: and I knew it hadn't all been joy and glory… Those times when he had faced the Dark Lord..Well, though, he really had brought all that upon himself, hadn't he, with his rule-breaking and nosiness?

It was also true he had suffered miseries when his schoolmates and the _Daily Prophet _were deriding him and teasing him. Fêted as he was normally, however, I had just thought it would do him good, and that maybe he would learn some much-needed humility from the experience.

"No-one ever thought I was anything before I came here," he continued. Even talking to himself, as it were, his voice trembled. "The Dursleys..they hated me..they told me I was a freak, and less than nothing, and locked me in the cupboard and then the smallest bedroom, and they couldn't even be bothered to feed me, or buy me clothes that fit, I think they hated me. They just wanted me out of the way as much as possible. And everyone picked on me at school because they were afraid of Dudley…"

I supposed it was possible I had been wrong about him needing lessons in humility.

"And then last year, when Sirius died…Dumbledore said it wasn't my fault, but it was…I didn't try hard enough at Occlumency…"

Now that was entirely true. I still could not think about those sessions without rancour.

"…and so I got tricked, and I should have known better….I miss him so much…"

Doh. Sirius again.

"…and I don't see how I'm going to do it!" Now he was nearly crying. "They want me to kill Voldemort! How am I supposed to do that? And if I don't, no-one else can, or so Dumbledore tells me…what if I fail? I _will_ fail. They'll all die, and it will be my fault…I won't have been strong enough…and they'll be dead… "

Compassion burned unexpectedly in my chest. That truly was a burden too heavy for any one person to bear, let alone a boy just turned seventeen who surprised me sometimes by managing to tie up his own boot laces unaided.

At what followed, I would have jumped off the bed if I could. Unfortunately I had no option but to remain immobile, without so much as a twitch. Potter collapsed onto my chest and sobbed against me. His tears were running down my neck. Granted, I felt sorry for the boy, but still…..

Fortunately Dumbledore arrived before my robes were too sodden with his weeping.

"Severus! Harry!"

I heard him sweep into the chamber. Harry jumped up.

"Harry.. it's all right, now, it's all right. Shh. Harry, what happened? Why did you find it necessary to put Professor Snape in a full body bind?"

Dumbledore gently drew back the blankets and took stock of my injuries.

"B-b-body bind?" Harry repeated blankly. "_Oh! _Erm. I did it so I could move him without hurting him, and then I forgot…."

"_Finite Incantatem!" _Dumbledore said.

I opened my eyes. They were hazy and unfocussed but I could make out Harry standing anxiously over me, his face swollen with crying. Dumbledore was looking at me gravely.

"Oh!" Harry said again, understanding dawning. "I'm sorry, Professor, I didn't.. erm, can people in body binds _hear_?

"Harry," Dumbledore said, kindly but firmly. "I think it best if you return to Headquarters now. The password is still Jelly Slugs. You know the way from here to my rooms, I believe."

"But – "

"I need to take care of Professor Snape's injuries now. You have done all you can, Harry, and I thank you. I will see you in London."

Harry hesitated, clearly unwilling to leave. "But…oh. All right, Professor. Good bye. Good bye, Professor Snape. I hope you feel better soon."

As he trudged slowly out of the door, it occurred to me that I ought perhaps to have thanked him.

. 


	15. Long Hot Summer

_Oh dear, it's a miserable August for our heroes...lots of gloom, but at least no doom....for now. evil grin._

August in London was hot, dusty and dull.

Harry was dejected. Ron and Hermione gave up trying to cheer him up in the end. They did not know what was wrong with him, and he couldn't or wouldn't tell them.

Eventually, he had changed sleeping quarters and moved into one of the small attic rooms, by himself. He told Ron it was because it was unfair to keep him awake so often. He was going through a bad patch as far as the nightmares went. Everybody tried to help him with this, but no-one could soothe him once he was caught in the grip of his nocturnal terrors. At long last, he would jerk awake of his own accord, sweating and yelling, and then lie awake for the rest of the night. He did not dare to fall back to sleep. The dead were waiting for him.

And his scar was hurting again.

At least he was not having visions. Dumbledore had, early last year, made an effort to teach him Occlumency, but with no more success than Snape had enjoyed. Harry just could not get the hang of it. Fortunately, over the previous months, Voldemort seemed to have abandoned the pursuit of Harry through his dreams. Dumbledore said it was because the link was less valuable to Voldemort now Harry understood it, and because there was always the risk Harry would learn how to manipulate the connection in reverse. So Voldemort had closed it off as far as he could.

But now the link seemed to be strengthening again. Harry rubbed angrily at the scar on his forehead. He dreaded finding Voldemort in his head once more. It made him feel.. polluted.

"Is everything all right, Harry?" Hermione asked, noticing.

"Yeah." Harry was short with her.

"Is your scar hurting again?" No answer. Hermione paused. "I think you should tell Dumbledore."

"He couldn't do anything."

"I still think you should tell Dumbledore," Hermione insisted. She looked worried. "Harry, I wish you'd tell us what the matter is…"

Harry said nothing. He knew he was being moody, surly and unreasonable. He knew his friends wanted to help him, and he just kept on pushing them away. But he couldn't seem to work through the heavy greyness enfolding him. It didn't help that he was practically confined to 12, Grimmauld Place. Occasionally, with much fuss, an escort was arranged so he could visit Diagon Alley. But the Order was much too busy to spend their summer babysitting him on shopping trips.

Hermione sighed. "Lupin said we could go to Diagon Alley this afternoon."

Harry shrugged indifferently. _Won't that be fun_, he thought to himself.

Later, having tea in the kitchen, owl post brought a letter. Harry's eyes lit momentarily with anticipation. Perhaps there was news of some kind…But the owl swooped over his head and landed in front of Ron. She stuck out her leg with an imperative hoot.

"It's for me!" Ron said in surprise, taking in the familiar Hogwarts crest on the envelope. He opened the letter and read it incredulously. He looked up, his eyes shining.

"What is it, Ron?" Hermione asked eagerly. "It must be good news.."

"Yeah," Ron said. "Yeah! I've been made Quidditch Captain."

He beamed around the kitchen.

"Ron!" Hermione squeaked. She did not entirely see the fuss about Quidditch. But she understood how important this was to Ron. "That's fantastic!"

Quidditch Captain? Ron, Quidditch Captain? Harry felt a vague sense of surprise, and scraped about to muster some enthusiasm.

"That's really great, Ron." Harry knew his voice sounded dull. He tried harder. "Excellent. Well done."

Ron's smile was fading rather. "I'm – I'm sorry, Harry," he stuttered. "I mean, you're a much better Quidditch player than I am, I know that…Maybe it's a mistake…"

Harry shrugged. "Being captain isn't about how well you play. You're good at strategy, Ron. That's why they've picked you, I bet."

He sounded uninterested. He realized Hermione and Ron would think it was because he was jealous. He knew he should mind about this.

But somehow, it was all irrelevant anyway. Who cared who captained Quidditch? It was just a game. House points, and prefect badges, and Quidditch … what did they matter?

Voldemort was rising. And Harry was paralysed by the knowledge that he, Harry, should be doing something about it. Only he didn't know what.

* * *

I scowled at the cauldron in front of me. 

My temper had grown so irritable, the only house-elf who could enter the same room as me without having a nervous breakdown on the spot was the one with all the woolly socks and hats. Dobby, I gathered he was called. He seemed to have appointed himself my personal servant.

"Professor Snape sir saved Harry Potter," he had told me in awe, when once I grew sufficiently curious to ask him why. "Professor Snape sir looked after Harry Potter when he was ill. Dobby wants Professor Snape to be comfortable."

I snorted. Potter again. Did even my personal comfort now depend on that boy?

But I took the ingredients Dobby had brought for me without thanks, and waved a dismissive hand. He effaced himself with speed and removed himself from my presence. Doubtless his co-workers would fall on his neck in celebration when he turned up back at the kitchens with his hide still attached to his scrawny body.

This was no use. I wanted to go to Hogsmeade. I wanted to buy some Potions ingredients for myself.

I wanted to step foot outside the castle doors. Such a simple wish, one would think.

Dumbledore had analysed my account of what happened the night I had so nearly died. He concluded my fatal error had been leaving the castle itself; the protections on the building were in fact able to block Voldemort's attempts to enspell me through that damned Mark on my arm. Thus, the Mark had only burned to begin with. It was when I went for a walk outside in the grounds that the full blast of the Siren spell had hit me.

So Dumbledore had decreed that even the Hogwarts grounds were too dangerous for me unless under his personal escort. Like a maximum security prisoner, I thought sourly. Now the Dementors were no longer at Azkaban, I imagined conditions there could hardly be much worse.

I threw some shrivelfigs at the cauldron. It roiled and burped. I moved sharply backwards, my wandering attention hastily returning to matters at hand.

Then the cauldron exploded. Truly, I thought with disgust, I had just committed an error worthy of Neville Longbottom. I stood in the middle of my potions laboratory, dripping with smoky blue sludge.

_Damn it_.

I tore off my ruined outer robes, and stomped out of my workroom. This was intolerable.

As I strode through the castle, I could see the painted figures in the portraits running for cover. Even the Bloody Baron took one look at me, and discovered he had urgent business elsewhere.

Less easily intimidated was Minerva McGonagall, who had been trying to track me down to hold a conversation with me ever since she returned from vacation.

"Severus!"

I grunted what could, to the optimist, have been interpreted as a greeting, and made to continue on my way. She held her ground however, fixing me with her stern gaze.

"Severus! Stop swooping about and stand still long enough to talk to me!"

Reluctantly, I halted. I folded my arms across my chest and peered down at her frigidly.

"That's better," she said. "Now, Severus, I am seriously worried about you. You don't seem yourself at all."

Yes, I do, I thought. Bad-tempered, surly, and intolerant of my fellow specimens of humanity. No change there.

"Please, Severus," she said in softer tones. "I do wish you would talk to us …"

Like I ever had. I said nothing, just continued to scowl at her. She sighed. "I can see I'm not going to get anywhere with this. Do bear in mind, Severus, that I am here should you wish to talk, or even just get away from those dungeons of yours for a cup of tea and some company…"

I grunted again, slightly touched by her concern despite myself. She smiled. "If you were wanting to see the Headmaster, Severus, I do believe he is in his office at present."

I did want to see the Headmaster. There had to be some other way of dealing with my current little problem than more or less locking me in.

He seemed to be expecting me. Sometimes I thought the very walls of the castle whispered in his ears.

"Albus!" I said intemperately as I stalked into his office. "I cannot bear this any longer! Take those damned wards off the castle doors and let me out!"

"Severus. Do come in. Have a cup of tea, perhaps?"

What would I want with a cup of tea except to dash it in his face, along with a nice charm to ensure it was decently boiling?

"I am so glad you came to see me," he said warmly. "I have been wanting to talk to you about Harry."

Potter? I did not want to talk about Potter. I wanted to talk about me. But, as was the story of my life, such was not to be. Why talk about Snape when there is a Potter to discuss?

"I'm worried about him," Dumbledore confided in me.

I effected lack of interest. Actually, I had to admit I was slightly anxious myself. It was inexplicable, but sometimes I was prey to a strange feeling that all was not well with Potter.

But he was safe in London, I knew, surrounded by his adoring entourage. There couldn't really be much wrong with him.

"I thought he would be all right once he got to London," Dumbledore continued. "I was expecting him to be unhappy with his relatives…"

I frowned slightly. "Why?"

Dumbledore looked shocked that I should ask. "What do you mean, Severus? You saw the way they treated him.."

"Indeed," I said grimly, a familiar curdling in my guts. "But nobody knew about that. Did they?"

Dumbledore sighed. "Well. I knew they did not accord him the best of treatment, certainly…"

I examined the expression on Dumbledore's face. Not a twinkle or sherbet lemon in sight. He looked…shamed.

I processed this information and reached certain conclusions. Such was my shock, I found myself gaping like a landed fish.

"You knew," I stated flatly. "You knew how those Muggles were treating him."

Dumbledore, most rarely for him, did not meet my accusing gaze. He looked old, and sad, and – stricken with guilt. "It was for his own good, Severus."

My unspoken accusations remained between us, a palpable force. Dumbledore's silence stretched on.

"Did you know the condition in which I would find him?" I inquired in carefully calm tones. Someone seemed to have cast a sticking charm on my teeth. They were clamped together.

"Of course not." He sounded shocked. "I knew he would be having a poor time of it. Of course I didn't know the situation had deteriorated so badly, or that he was actually in danger! But, Severus, he had to stay there...Lily's protection was finally sealed into his skin when he turned of age while in the keeping of his relatives.."

Blood magic paid no heed to the artificial marking of days by human contrivance. It pulsed to the rhythm of the universe itself. By this counting, Potter had reached seventeen some days before the conventional paper calendar would have it.

I did not speak. I was not letting Dumbledore off the hook so easily. My mind beheld Potter again: bloodied, shaking , crawling clumsily out of that cupboard to sprawl at my feet.

"It was for his own good," Dumbledore repeated. He still would not meet my eyes.

Love. It was an enigma to me. Dumbledore loved Potter, I did not doubt it. Yet he had left him to the care of his relatives for all those years, knowing how they treated him. I was, yes, I was outraged.

I could not help snorting to myself. Was it not I who, so recently, had tried to teach Potter a lesson about the importance of sacrifice in pursuit of your goals? And yet somehow I did not care to think of Potter himself as the sacrifice: the pawn to be groomed for slaughter, then thrust forward to be obliterated for the redemption of the wizarding world.

Worse, that Dumbledore's would be the loving hand directing Potter's moves on the board of war.

Oh, perhaps I was being unfair....

But upon reflection, I realized I should not have been taken aback. For what else had Dumbledore done to me? Every time I returned from my Death Eater meetings, he had nursed me. He had dosed me with potions to heal my body from the after-effects of the cruciatus curse. He had healed my mind with words of affirmation, affection.

Love.

And then he had sent me on my way to court death and worse yet again, the next time I was granted an opportunity to spy on the Dark Lord. It was necessary. I understood. I embraced the chance to atone for my mistakes through the sufferings etched again and again on my skin.

I had not been an orphaned child consigned to his care. I surprised myself with insight.

"That's why you indulge Potter so much, isn't it?" I commented. "That's why you let him get away with so much. You are trying to make up to him what you do to him the rest of the year when he is not at Hogwarts…"

Dumbledore bowed his head in assent. An unwelcome thought occurred to me.

"Does he know?" I demanded. "Is Potter aware you know what kind of guardianship you entrusted him to?"

Dumbledore nodded, heavily. "Yes," he admitted. "It is one of the reasons he has been so withdrawn from me this last year. I told him, when I told him – almost everything. After the battle in the Department of Mysteries."

For the second time, I found myself gaping. It is not an expression I am fond of. It looks moronic. I do not think it suits me.

"How could you be so stupid?" I grated out, horrified by the implications.

The boy. Shedding hot tears down my neck. Whining on and on about how his relatives had always hated him, how Sirius was dead…knowing that Dumbledore, the only other real guardian figure in his life, had deliberately allowed him to be abused from the age of one.

The equation made sense in theory, oh yes. The future of the wizarding world. One skinny boy, to be trained up as a weapon. Who would be more powerful if left to his relatives' care until he was seventeen, when the blood magic matured.

Explain that to a small boy locked in a dark cupboard without food. Explain that to a hurting and confused teenager starved for a sense of solidity, of foundations, in his life.

"So you care then, Severus?" Dumbledore asked. The twinkle was returning.

"Of course not," I snapped. "Well – to an extent. Naturally. I do not want him to fall apart."

Dumbledore held my gaze with a peculiar earnestness. "He is doing so."

"What?"

"Falling apart. His nightmares are getting worse, he barely speaks, he does not seem to care what is going on about him…"

This all seemed like perfectly healthy reactions to living with the Weasleys, as far as I was concerned.

"So? He will be back at Hogwarts shortly. I expect that will return him to normal. Or at least," I amended, "as normal as he ever gets."

Dumbledore regarded me for a long moment. I felt distinctly uneasy. In such a manner had he always looked at me when sending me out on especially dangerous and unpleasant missions.

"I think you can help," Dumbledore told me.

I arched a disbelieving eyebrow. "Help? Potter?"

"He saved your life," Dumbledore reminded me. As if I needed reminding.

"What of it? I have saved his life more often than he has saved mine!" There. See how Potter reduced me to his own childish level.

"You gave him your Fireheart stone."

"I am aware. I was there." What was the old sod driving at?

"My impression is," Dumbledore continued, as if I had not spoken, "that Harry has begun to relate to you."

Did he really think so?

Not that I cared in the least, I hastened to assure myself. The boy intruded far too much into my life and thoughts as it was.

"To my sorrow, it is unlikely that Harry will turn to me any longer. And he simply does not see enough of Remus for him to be central in his life; besides, I think the association with Sirius is too strong…."

I had a dreadful sense of foreboding about where this conversation was heading.

"..Harry needs a.."

Oh don't say it,.I thought desperately. Please. Not that. Don't say it-

"..father-figure, an older man to guide him into maturity…"

"I am not _at all_ paternal." I barked the words out, sitting ramrod straight in horror.

Dumbledore ignored me. "…someone who can act as a bit of a role- model.."

"_Role-model?_ You didn't tell me you wanted the boy to become a Death Eater when he leaves school!"

"…Someone he looks up to."

I drummed my long fingers on the arm of my chair. Bitterness suffused me.

I supposed, yet again, my personal preferences would not enter into the picture.

"You can begin," Dumbledore carried on, thoughtfully, "by trying once more to teach him Occlumency. It might work better now there is a bond of trust between you."

He was joking. Surely.

No. He wasn't.

I dropped my head into my hands with a low groan of despair.

I knew atonement for sins was not supposed to be easy. But did it have to be so damned _hard?_

* * *

Thanks loads to reviewers! I am turning into a review junkie… 

So: appreciation to all.

Shezan: sacrifice, hmm. I have about three possible endings….

Mon-Chi-Chi: I'm so flattered! I'm sure that can't be right though.

Charlie-potter1: As ever. TY.

BeldaranCara: glad you liked it! Mm, there is a bit more angst to come yet……Are you an Eddings fan by chance?

BlackEyedGirl: don't worry, the story won't ever be stopped for too long..I like it too much!

Read300300: thanks!

Mara727: yep, Harry is on the brink of… well you'll see!

Silverthreads: thanks…yes, Snape is having a bit of a Potter crisis really!

KT: thanks for reviewing!

Monica85: Yeah, for an emotional boy, Harry only ever seems to shout about his feelings to his friends, not talk about them!

PureBlack: TY!

Crookshanks87: Worried about my (oops JKR's) poor Severus? Hmm, wait until chapter…

Padawan JanAQ, and Shadowed Hand: Ah yes, the bond…more will be revealed…

Athenakitty: Poor Snape. He'd rather not do anything with the new information! But he may not have a choice…

Alleya: Thanks, as ever, for your terrific reviews.

Rosegirl: Next update won't be too long I hope.. I just enjoy writing this story so much!

RI: Thanks for reminder. Done. Hope you still like the story.

_Hope I remembered everybody, if not, I will most definitely have smiled lots when your review bounced into my intray._


	16. Pollyanna Potion

_Wow, I got so many reviews last chapter!_

_/beams happily upon the world. I do enjoy your feedback._

_This is a little rougher than I would like, because work is so busy, but I thought I would put it up anyway. It is in the nature of the lull before the angsty storm...._

Occlumency?

Harry chewed his lip nervously. His experiences of learning Occlumency so far had been entirely negative, and his sessions with Snape nothing short of disastrous.

But his scar was hurting... this was worrying. And it did mean Dumbledore was sending him back to Hogwarts a week early; he could only be pleased about that. With every day that passed, he loathed 12, Grimmauld Place more. And it pained him, with a dull ache, to be on such cool terms with his friends. Not that they didn't try. It was his own melancholy that distanced him from them.

Occlumency. Snape. He would be staying with Snape again.

Harry closed his eyes as utter embarrassment drenched him. Hot, cold, cringe-worthy embarrassment. He heard his own voice. Oh, yes. Weeping. The last time he had seen Snape, he had blethered on at him about his problems for nearly an hour, then cast himself on his neck in tears. And Snape, poor man, under full body bind, had been unable to respond or protest or move or –

Harry felt cold with shame.

Snape needed to think his outburst that evening was a one-off, caused by shock or something. Harry didn't want Snape's contempt. Given Snape had despised him for years, this was possibly surprising: but Harry chose not to analyse his reasoning over-much. He held his Fireheart in his hand for comfort; he did that a lot recently. It seemed to help.

Harry turned his mind to the problem of how to mask his depression when he returned to Hogwarts and the stewardship of Snape. Cheering charms weren't strong enough and wore off too quickly anyway. He had tried them. A potion?

"Hermione," Harry asked, wandering into the kitchen where the others were gathered. "Could I borrow your NEWT potions books please?"

Hermione looked up at him, blinking. She was obviously suffering from a double shock. Firstly, that depressed Harry had spontaneously and of his own accord approached her and asked her something. Secondly, that what he wanted was a school book.

"Yes, of course, Harry," she said immediately. "Here. What do you want?"

Harry was vague. In the end Hermione lent him all the books she had with her on the subject. There were eight of them. At least five covered material beyond the school syllabus.

It was in one of these Harry found what he was looking for.

_Pollyanna Potion_, he read. _Mood-altering substance that induces a feeling of perpetual well-being and optimism.._

Perfect! Harry thought with a touch of genuine pleasure.

He was grateful he had moved to his own private attic room, as he set up his makeshift brewing station. He had his Potions Kit with him, of course. But he had to borrow a little cauldron from the kitchen, and bewitch a tiny Safety Flame to heat it.

The potion actually wasn't that difficult to brew. He supposed it was its properties rather than its difficulty that meant it wasn't on the school syllabus. He considered the recipe thoughtfully. The active ingredients seemed to be Hyperium Magicum and Mimosa.

He was, after all, pretty unhappy. He added a little more of each substance to the recipe than strictly recommended.

It didn't seem to make much difference. The potion didn't change colour. And the instructions clearly said, the more potent the mixture, the more intense the blue colouring.

He threw another handful in of each. This potion had to counteract some pretty deep-seated misery, after all.

Ah. Now that was more like it. Harry watched in satisfaction as the potion turned a very deep dark blue.

Carefully, he decanted it into a potions bottle.

All set. He didn't want to draw attention to his actions, so he would take his first dose just before he Floo'ed to Hogwarts. Then nobody here at Grimmalud Place would know he had resorted to magical means of sorting his head out, and he would arrive at Hogwarts restored to a nice, positive outlook on life. Just the right frame of mind for some bouts of mental invasion games in the shape of Occlumency training with Snape.

* * *

The boy, for reasons incomprehensible, actually looked pleased to see me. Not even in a decently subtle, slight upward curl-of-the-lip type way: but in a full-on, face lighting up, hearty shake of the hand type way. 

I scowled. I might have known Dumbledore would exaggerate grossly in his efforts to manipulate me. Potter did not look in the least depressed. His little sobbing fit the month before – on my shoulder, no less! - had obviously just been an aberration. That was all to the good, of course, since Dumbledore in one of his senile moments had seen fit to charge me with the task of finding out just why the boy was so miserable.

Personally I thought it was rather obvious. However, perhaps he did need to talk about it - preferably to somebody other than me; but such was not to be, it seemed.

Or: perhaps not. Perhaps Potter had no need at all to discourse on his wholly uninteresting emotional state. I looked down at his jaunty, grinning face. I had gone to quite some effort to groom my mind to a state approaching sympathy. Understanding, even. Clearly it was not required. He bounced along beside me with exuberance as we made for my chambers.

I reflected on the contents of my Potions cupboard. I had just received a consignment of bat livers which needed chopping.

Excellent.

That should dampen his unnatural enthusiasm and irritating good spirits very nicely. And when he began to get annoyed with the task, and began to mutter, I could start to question him about just what in life he was so angry about. Yes. That would be my way in.

To my disappointment, he did not protest his assignment, but began to hack with gusto at the basin of livers I put in front of him. I watched him for a few minutes. He hummed happily to himself.

"Dah – da – di – dah " He was obviously happy in his work.

I gritted my teeth.

"Da-da-DOO, dah, di-dah-"

It was merry little tune. It grated on my nerves.

This was not going as planned.

"Well?" I inquired, after some time of this.

He looked up, surprised. "Sorry? Am I doing something wrong?"

If anyone could find a way to make a mess of pulverising bat livers, it would be Potter. But no. He wasn't doing anything wrong. Except raising his voice in joyful song.

"Are you not wondering what this has to do with Occlumency?" I inquired. He was ruining my strategy to throw him off-balance as a prelude to my pastoral interrogation. Interview. Chat. Whatever.

"Not really. I just supposed you weren't ready to begin teaching me yet," he replied brightly.

I considered him narrowly. This was – odd. Why was he so…_cheerful_?

Well. No time like the present to find out, I supposed. I had promised Dumbledore, after all; I had agreed I would at least try to talk to the boy, in an almost certainly futile attempt to untangle his warped psychological processes.

All right. So. Here we go, I thought. I cleared my throat and contemplated some opening gambits.

I rejected the first one that came to mind: 'So, Potter. Have you finally pulled together yourself together and stopped moping about your psychopathic godfather's long overdue demise?' It had the advantage of directness, but I suspected Dumbledore would consider it lacked a certain warm and caring quality.

Fine. How about: 'Hey there, Harry. How's things with you, then?' – Oh, yes, that one would just trip oh so naturally off my tongue; perhaps I could even give the boy a cuddly toy at the same time. Emphatically: no.

Surely, asking somebody how they were feeling wasn't that difficult. I coughed again. There seemed to be some sort of blockage in my gullet.

"Potter," I said finally in an aloof tone, turning my back on him and sorting out some potions ingredients. "You were rather upset last time you spoke to me. Are you feeling better now?"

There! I congratulated myself. Non-judgmental, open-ended, giving at least the impression that I might actually be interested in the answer…

He beamed at me.

"Oh yes, Professor," he said happily. "_Much_ better. I'm so pleased to be back at Hogwarts. I just know everything is going to be all right now."

Hmm. Rather surprising. I had never looked on Potter in the light of a soul-mate, but in recent years I had at least acquitted him of possessing a chirpy and optimistic personality.

"Oh. That's, yes, that's good, Potter," I responded. Cautiously, I ventured further. "So – you're not worried about anything, then? The – er – Dark Lord, for instance?"

There. Now I had fully discharged my promise to Dumbledore. I had inquired. The boy would answer. End of story.

"What, Voldemort?" Potter chuckled. "No, of course not. No need to worry about him, is there? I mean, we'll just get the Order together and go, well, you know, obliterate him."

"Oh," I said, again, rather faintly this time. "Just, 'well, you know, obliterate him'. I see."

I supposed it was a good thing the boy had ceased to tear himself apart over the issue. Only there was a certain lack of, shall we say _realism_, about his response which I found rather disconcerting.

He gave me a blinding smile. "You know something, Professor Snape," he declared at last. "You're so kind to me. It's really, well, _sweet_, the way you keep wanting to know how I am and so on."

Horrified, I watched him blink tears of emotion from those green eyes of his. He continued to smile at me. The hair on the back of my neck stood up.

Thoroughly unnerved, I retreated at speed, and took refuge in my Potions cupboard. When did Harry Potter become Happy Potter? It was unnatural. It was all wrong.

Yes, I realized suddenly, cursing myself for being so slow on the uptake. It was unnatural, and it was all wrong.

Just _what_ had that damned idiot boy been taking! I thought furiously, comprehension dawning.

Grimly, I advanced. I took his chin in my hand, tilted up his face, and stared into his eyes. I wanted to see whether his pupils were dilated.

He giggled.

Yes. He giggled.

"Oh, Professor Snape," he snorted, batting his eyelids, "I always thought your eyes were black, but now I look more closely –"

"Shut – up," I snarled. I dropped his chin with speed. I put 'Foolish Babbling' right at the top of my list of secondary symptoms.

"Potter," I said, in dangerous tones. "What did you do. What did you take."

He laughed again. In that thoroughly silly way. I ground my teeth. If it were a potion, he would need to keep it somewhere close by for refreshment purposes.

I investigated his outer robes, cast aside on a chair, while Potter chortled to himself.

Hmm. There was a bottle, full of a very deep blue stuff. Pollyanna Potion? I thought: but that shouldn't be this colour.

"Potter," I said. "How much active ingredient did you put in this?"

He was too - well - _happy - _to lie, or pretend he didn't know what I was talking about.

"Oh, about double, I suppose," he said airily. "Professor, can I just say to you how much –"

"Potter!" I said again in strangled tones. I ran back into my cupboard. Potter showed most worrying signs of wishing to embrace me fondly.

Antidote, I thought firmly. What – is – the –antidote?

"Professor," Potter said, "I don't think I've ever told you -"

"SHUT - UP! " I repeated.

I decided I was coming down with a cold. My voice sounded like a strangled cat.

And Potter would just keep on _smiling _at me….


	17. Antidote

I rustled through yet another reference book, continuing to feel unsettled by the mere presence in the same room of Potter under the influence of Pollyanna potion.

I looked up at him thoughtfully. He was wandering aimlessly around now in a fit of restlessness. This was irritating, naturally, but it was easier just to let him get on with it. It was certainly preferable to his attempts to engage me in conversation. Or demonstrate his magically induced affection for me.

His eyes, I noticed, were beginning to look rather glazed. I searched them optimistically for anything resembling lucid thought. I did this in most Potions classes, of course: and usually I was able to discern at least some faint flicker of intelligent life.

Not this time. I thought rapidly.

The only 'quick-fix' antidote I could find would stop the euphoric daze, but cause emotional instability. And if the grinning maniac genuinely was depressed, this could well plunge him into the depths of despair. Of course, he deserved this to happen after pulling such an imbecilic stunt. It would serve him right.

The more complete cure would take twelve hours to brew. But that would mean _me _putting up with him in the meantime. Hmm. Potter happy-happy? Or Potter in the depths of teenage misery? Both he and I were at least more familiar with the latter state, I supposed.

As I pondered, I realized that he was ambling towards the door.

"Potter!" I said sharply. "Where are you going?"

"Oh," he said, "Just going for a bit of a walk.. might go say hi to Dumbledore, you know…"

Ah. A blissful vision rose before me. Yes; let Dumbledore deal with his little Potter protégé on a potion high.

Except I knew Dumbledore wasn't here. But most of the other teachers were. And Potter wandering around the castle would surely manage to bump into at least some of them, roused out of their nests by the vacation alert system informing them a student was loose in the corridors.

For a few precious moments, I beheld a beatific vision. I saw Potter trying to smooch McGonagall, planting a nice wet kiss on her bony cheek….attempting to be upbeat around Sybill Trelawney, predicting world peace and universal happiness (oh, how her eyes would goggle in disappointment)… and crushing little Flitwick to death in a fit of spontaneous affection…The ghosts and the portraits would giggle and gossip about it for weeks…

The humiliation. Almost I smirked. If the ghost of James Potter ever ventured into the halls of Hogwarts, would he not cringe to see his nearly-grown son making such a complete, utter and absolute idiot of himself. I dwelled fondly on this beautiful prospect. Potter would never get over it.

He still had that foolish grin on his face as he turned the door handle, all set to waltz off into the public eye. I noticed with some disquiet that he did not seem able to focus quite correctly.

I sighed and succumbed to my nobler self.

"Potter," I growled. "Stay where you are."

He blinked. "Do you want me for something, Professor?" His voice was slightly slurred.

"No!" I snapped. "I most certainly do not. Sit. Over there. Out of my way. And read this."

I threw him a book. He opened it, and began to hum, tunelessly. I considered shutting him up, but at least while his throat was occupied making discordant noises he couldn't actually talk to me.

Under my suspicious gaze, he seemed to get less euphoric and more dopey. I judged it safe to leave him sitting there while I assembled various potions ingredients in an attempt to rescue him (yet again) from the consequences of his own stupidity.

I was just carefully chopping parruva roots when I heard him utter a soft cry.

_Now_ what? I stalked across the room and regarded him grimly, hands on hips. He was stroking the scar on his forehead in a puzzled manner. He looked surprised.

"Hurts," he mumbled: not in complaint, but rather in vague and wondering tones.

I frowned. From everything I had ever heard about this precious scar, he should be experiencing significant distress by now.

I speculated: perhaps the magically induced euphoria of the potion was overpowering his body's normal defence mechanisms – which would include pain, anxiety and stress.

I was abruptly alarmed. What if the magical hold of the potion on Potter's emotions had reduced his own defences to an extent that Voldemort was able to gain access to his mind? I had no idea how the peculiar link between Potter's curse-scar and the Dark Lord actually worked: I was not even sure that Dumbledore did.

"Potter," I rapped out, urgently, "what do you see? Do…are you seeing any visions?"

"Visions," he repeated, dreamily. A smile still played around his mouth as he sank back in his chair and gazed abstractly at the ceiling. The book on his lap, I noticed, was upside-down. "Visions," he said again, in a slightly more alert tone of voice.

Damn it! Was he having a vision from Voldemort or not?

Was Voldemort watching me even now through those magically hazy green eyes? Cold fingers tapped my spine.

I hesitated. But I needed to know. _Legilimens_, I thought silently, as I moved closer and probed Potter's mind.

Nothing: or almost nothing. He gazed back at me with bemusement, but no sign of distress. I picked up just the slightest sense of floating.

Potter's inability to master Occlumency was legendary. I knew he had not managed to learn the skill from Dumbledore either, because secretly I had been pleased that Dumbledore had not succeeded in teaching Potter where I had failed.

I tried again. I was not quite so good at Legilimency as I was at Occlumency, but still, I had never before had any trouble whatsoever tapping into the incoherent prattle of Potter's emotional stream of consciousness.

Only now: nothing. A very faint sense of laughter caught on the breeze, or a quicksilver fish flashing almost unnoticed through the fingers. That was it.

It was like trying to capture water in a bucket made of mesh.

Interesting. I could only hope the Dark Lord was similarly masked from entering Potter's head. Although, by all accounts, he had departed quite rapidly last time he had tried to set up residence in Potter's body anyway. For once, I found myself in some sympathy with Voldemort. Teaching teenagers was bad enough. Sharing head-space with one… no. Please.

Potter ceased rubbing his forehead, and began humming again.

His wide and increasingly glazed eyes turned towards me. I remembered with some foreboding that using Pollyanna potion for extended periods can have quite negative effects on the mind: panic attacks, confusion, and acute anxiety. And the stupid boy had made it double strength; for all I knew, he had taken double dose as well, just to be on the safe side. With Potter, who could tell?

I returned hastily to my workbench, and threw the temporary antidote potion together with as much speed as I could muster. As was necessary, I put in three drops of Potter's original mixture. (Gods, the stuff was strong.)

I advanced on Potter with my steaming brew.

"Don't want that," he said, rolling his eyes upwards to contemplate the ceiling.

"I do not care," I informed him, "what your preferences might be. You will drink it."

I _thought_ I heard him mutter something which could just possibly have been "make me".

He closed his eyes, and continued to hum. It was evident he did not number musicality among his limited array of talents.

I pounced on him and forced my bottle into his mouth, tipping his head back by his hair. He gagged and struggled. I was almost sure this was not the way Madam Pomfrey got her reluctant patients to take their medicine, but the model I had was from a childhood memory of experimenting with potions on my cat.

Only _nice_ potions, of course. I had preferred my cat to most human beings. But "Let's play potions" never did become one of her favourite games. And although I happened to think purple fur looked quite charming on her, she had appeared to disagree.

"Drink," I advised Potter again.

He succumbed. He lacked a certain strength of will at the moment, and I was quite determined he should take it.

The effects were not quite instantaneous. Fascinated, I watched the emotions chase across his face as he returned to lucidity. Bemusement. Realization. Anxiety. Horror.

His expression stuck on "horror".

"Well, Potter," I said silkily. "Welcome back."

I had every intention of enjoying this moment. He had barely been at Hogwarts any time at all, and already he had managed to cause me trouble and inconvenience. I expected him to be thoroughly chastened.

"Professor," he said faintly. "I- "

He looked quite white. Then green. Then -

Oh. I had been here before, hadn't I? Puking Potter was no stranger to me. I grabbed a basin and shoved it under his face. Just in time.

"Thanks," he mumbled.

* * *

Where was Voldemort when you wanted him? Harry thought. 

Why wasn't he dead? Life would be so much more pleasant if he were dead. Instead of sitting there throwing up while Snape watched with a mixture of fascination and disgust.

"Sorry," he said miserably. Snape was now holding out a cloth for him. Harry took it with gratitude and wiped his mouth; he watched as Snape Vanished the vomit, but prudently left the basin close by.

Harry was grateful for feeling sick. It meant he could bury his face in his hands and pretend he wasn't there, Snape wasn't there, and all of this was just some terrible dream….

"Potter," Snape said commandingly.

Harry grunted, refusing to look up.

"Potter!"

Reluctantly Harry lifted his head. Snape placed a cool hand on his forehead and examined his eyes, which unfortunately meant Harry's you're-not-here and I'm-not-here ruse was blown out of the water. He was almost sure Snape was smirking.

"Hmph." Snape appeared satisfied with what he saw. "That does seem to have done the trick. You will need to take a more complete antidote when it is ready. What I have given you is temporary; it will not thoroughly counteract the effects of what you took. You may find you have rather less emotional control than normal."

Snape looked as if he found the notion of Harry having 'less emotional control than normal' to be beyond the realms of the possible.

"Thanks," Harry said again, in a small voice. Memories streamed over him. "_Oh, Professor Snape, you're so kind to me_. _How sweet._" "_Professor Snape, your eyes aren't really black, are they.._"

Harry could feel the flush of shame sweeping over his skin. "Can I go and lie down for a bit?" he asked.

Anything to get out of the same room as Snape.

"If you wish," Snape said to him. "I will need to brew your next potion." _At great personal trouble and inconvenience_, his body-language said.

"Right. Thanks."

Harry fled. He dived into the spare room and flung himself face-down on the bed with a groan of despair. Hot waves of shame and embarrassment pounded over him.

_Get me out of here... I want to leave... I want to go home,_ ran through his head.

The fact that he actually had no home hit him once more with all the tenderness of a runaway troll.

The emptiness followed.

* * *

I nodded my head in satisfaction. The potion was brewing. When ready, it should cleanse the effects of the magical and chemical cocktail Potter had imbibed out of his system. Really, the boy had no sense at all. Pollyanna potion was practically never used in healing, it was so volatile in its effects. Even when taken at recommended dosage. 

I pondered the two significant facts to emerge from Potter's little adventure. His scar was indeed hurting again, as it had not done for over a year. Coupled with the Dark Lord's recent attack on me through the Dark Mark, that was disquieting news. It seemed to indicate that Voldemort was experimenting with ways to get at Potter and myself through the brands that tied us to him.

The other interesting point, though, was that Potter had actually succeeded in Occlumency. He had not known what he was doing, and I had no intention of feeding Potter mind-bending potions on a regular basis in an effort to reproduce the effect. But still, it was a breakthrough of sorts. Potter's mind worked so very differently from my own, it had always been extremely difficult to communicate the skill of Occlumency to him. This gave me something to go on.

I was absorbed in my work, so I did not give much thought to Potter. I supposed he was hiding in his room while he came to terms with his embarrassment.

I was, in fact, simply pleased to have him out of the way so I could finish some experiments which had been at critical stages. I dismissed a nagging sense of unease about him; I was expecting the boy to be miserable after what had happened, and he was undoubtedly wallowing in self-pity. I did my best to put him completely out of my mind.

I suppose I do see now that this was a mistake.


	18. Vertigo

**_WARNING!_**

_**This chapter is angsty; it also contains scenes of self-harming.**If this disturbs you, I have noted in the text where it begins, so you can stop reading, and I will place a brief plot-summary at the beginning of the next chapter (which returns to a lighter tone)._

* * *

_Author's quotation. Because Harry hasn't read this book. But I have._

"What is vertigo? Fear of falling? … No, vertigo is something other than the fear of falling. It is the voice of the emptiness below us which tempts and lures us, it is the desire to fall, against which, terrified, we defend ourselves." Milan Kundera, _The Unbearable Lightness of Being._

* * *

It was odd, Harry thought dully, how emptiness could fill you and more than fill you, as if it were trying to burst through your skin and obliterate you with a void. A space, a purified vacuum, an annihilation. 

_Be not_, he said to himself experimentally. _Be not, be not_. Almost he hoped that with the words and the desire and the wizardry, such a command might actually call down the fates and usher thought into reality.

But there was no magic he knew of that could perform such an act; could excise him neatly from the surface of the world and of history, as if he had never been.

He curled up and pressed his chin against his knees. The room was not cold, but he was shivering. He did not know how much time had passed.

So many times in recent weeks had he sat like this, poised on the edge of the long fall into darkness.

Resolutely, again, he turned his face away. Was he not the The Boy Who Lived? Dumbledore had told him he was the only one who could kill Voldemort. He had to live; and live; and live…. For all of the rest of them. _But I will fail_, a small voice inside him wailed. He stood under the judgement of the living and the dead, and found himself wanting.

He stifled the impulse to express his frustration through noise, for Snape would hear. Silently, he rocked. The tension inside him was causing him physical pain: jagged edges of misery impaled him from moment to moment.

He remembered a fragment of a poem he had read once inside a newspaper he had purloined from the Dursleys' bin. The words had stayed with him, for they expressed how he felt.

_Darkness. The crushed earth_

_Gasps._

_I am alone in this shattered place,_

_Blundering blind with the blinded stars_

_Through deathless night.___

This shattered place, he thought. This shattered place, and he: in that place, broken, broken open, upon those broken stones. In deathless night.

He was so cold. He wondered how it was possible to feel so numb and so anguished at the same time.

* * *

There. That potion was bubbling along very nicely. It was, actually, rather intricate. Were I the sort of person given to self-congratulation, I would have to admit few other people could brew that particular potion with success. 

Not being Gilderoy Lockhart, however, I had neglected to supply myself with a stack of signed photographs to that effect.

Now: to my most important experiment.

The prospect of being imprisoned in a school had appalled me. Worst of all, the prospect of my liberation appeared by all accounts to rest on the possibility of Potter managing to vanquish Voldemort.

Hmm.

Alternatively the Dark Lord, before that unlikely eventuality, would succeed in finding some way to remove the stain of my existence from his domains. The key to it was that blasted Mark on my arm. Somehow the Dark Lord had found a way to use it to put down taproots into my body, and bespell me from afar. But it could be blocked; it could be blocked. Here in Hogwarts castle, the Mark responded to the Dark Lord's call; it burned. But he was not able to feed his spells down through it.

I needed to find a way of blocking his attentions in a more portable format. One I could carry around with me, and thus resume some semblance of ordinary life.

As I was a Potions Master, naturally, it was in the realm of Potions that I experimented. I was rather hopeful of my latest line of enquiry. I stirred, and simmered, and measured out precise portions of obscure ingredients.

I was definitely irritated by the recurrent feeling: _Something is wrong_.

I clacked my tongue. Hard as I tried, I could not quite rid myself of the distracting sense that all was not well. Specifically, the source of my uneasiness seemed to relate to Potter.

_Don't be ridiculous,_ I told myself. He was right there in the room next door. He would have called for me if he needed help, wouldn't he? He was seventeen years old, after all, I should not need to mollycoddle him like a toddler. He had wanted to hide away on his own.

_Something is wrong_, the feeling insisted. Obstinately, I refused to heed it. Potter took up far too much of my valuable time as it was. He needed to learn that idiotic actions had undesirable consequences.

So. Fine. Just _how much_ golden seal did I think I would need…..

_A/N The sections following include scenes of self-harm with quite graphic descriptions._

* * *

Harry dug a somewhat ragged fingernail into his flesh and ran it down his arm. He could feel the fiery trace of its passage. 

Funnily enough, it seemed to help. It was as though a fraction of the pressure within him coalesced along that thin line of physical line of pain, and was released into the air.

Harry dug his nail in again. Harder. A vicious impulse darted snake-like within him. He gritted his teeth with a sudden urge to attack his own body. For existing. For daring to be.

His heart-rate sped up. He knew, now, what he wanted. What would fortify him in his battle against the vertigo, and help him to resist the urge to step into the void

Harry found he was panting slightly.

He looked feverishly around the room. He jumped to his feet and ran to the washbasin. He scrabbled around the various toiletries stored in the cupboard underneath. Razor. Was there a razor.

No.

But he was a wizard, wasn't he, and he was doing a NEWT in tranfiguration. His eyes roamed the room. His whole body was taut with anticipation. Yes. There. A metal comb. That would do nicely.

He breathed deeply and tried to calm himself sufficiently to undertake the spell. It really wasn't that difficult. The substance was similar. He held in his mind the sharp edges and flat, sleek sides of an old-fashioned razor blade. He muttered the incantation and performed the requisite wand movements.

And there it was. Silver, glinting. Sharp.

Harry's breath was coming very fast now. A thought struck him. He crossed to the door and carefully spelled it shut with the strongest wards he knew.

Then he sat on the edge of the bed and contemplated the razor. Now he had it, he felt safe. As if he sat in a pool of stillness. Where, he thought clinically. Where should he draw its first patterns into his flesh? His body thrummed expectantly.

* * *

Ah: that was it…the golden seal had acted on the Potion in just the way I wanted. I was making really excellent progress here. I was smug. _Now_ see just who was worthy of the Order of Merlin... 

I sat down to scribble some more notes and keep tabs on the thoughts flying through my head. Next I should try _this_, and _this_, and _this_…

Fleetingly I recalled how Potter had actually been useful to me when he stayed with me before. It was difficult to assimilate into my worldview, but I had to confess it was true. He had taken notes for me while I performed my experiments. It really had been rather helpful not to be always breaking off the flow of my thoughts.

Potter.

Perhaps I should just go and check on him.

No, I told myself. He had wanted to be on his own. Given his retreat in total embarrassment, I considered it highly unlikely he wanted to see me. I expected he was occupying himself by writing anguished letters to the Granger girl or his Weasley side-kick, or some other such activity.

The flameflower! I thought suddenly, my mind springing back to my researches. Yes, that was what I needed, I must order a consignment by owl at once!

* * *

The arm, Harry thought in a detached way. He would begin with his left arm. 

He picked up the razor reverently, and turned it in his hands. He was careful to avoid the edges of the blade. Accidentally amputating a finger was not his goal.

He had transfigured it well.

He laid his arm within a folded towel. He did not want to leave any evidence of what he was doing through making a mess. Who would understand? A part of his brain babbled to him: _mad, you've gone mad, is Voldemort getting at you through your scar or something?_

He set the blade against his flesh. His first cut was tentative, shallow. His second slashed deeper. He watched his blood flow, fascinated. Somewhere within him, horrified anxiety at his actions stirred. _Mad_, the voice said shrilly. _You've gone mad…_

Release.

His body seemed to revolve around the throb and pulse of hot pain in his arm. Everything else disintegrated. Harry bit his lip, and sank into the pain. It had focus. Meaning. Limits. It was so much more manageable than the stark and chaotic landscapes of his mind.

The blood flowed, rich and metallic. His inner turmoil seemed to flow out with it. Harry's breathing slowed, regularized. His heart rate steadied.

That was better. He shuddered slightly: in triumph and in shame, in relief and in revulsion.

* * *

I threw my quill down. 

It was no use. However much I tried to convince myself otherwise, I had to face it. The urge to go and see Potter was becoming overwhelming. I could no longer deny it.

A disease, possibly? Some infectious complaint that made you desire to seek out the one person most likely to drive you to insanity?

Whatever. I jumped to my feet with an urgency I did not quite understand and strode across to his room. (_And just when, I wondered absently, did it become _his _room…_?)

Again, for reasons I did not wholly comprehend, I did not knock or call his name. I simply tried the door.

It was locked! And more than locked! He had spelled it shut!

"Potter!" I called.

No response. Merlin's beard. What _now_?

"POTTER!"

Even while I shouted his name, I was waving my hand. He did not really suppose he could spell doors shut against me in my own chambers, did he?

The door burst open, and I leaped forward.

He was there, standing by the sink and staring at me in dismay. He was obviously in the midst of a hasty attempt to clear away some red bundle in his arms.

My eyes narrowed, then focused in, then dilated with the advent of horror. The red bundle _was_ his arm.

"What have you done.." I whispered. "Gods. What have you done…."

His arm was bleeding copiously into a sodden towel. He looked both defiant and shamed. I closed my eyes. I felt anger. Guilt.

Sorrow.

I took him gently by the shoulders and steered him to sit on the bed. I sat next to him. My own heartbeat seemed very loud in my ears. This was not happening.

"I – it was an accident – " he started to say. "I – "

"Potter," I said wearily. "Harry. No. It was not an accident."

I had been Head of Slytherin House for many years. It was not the first time I had been involved in such situations. My speciality reaction was cool crisis intervention, followed by immediate referral of the individual to those more competent in the tender arts of caring. Which was almost any other staff member, really. Although: perhaps I did have the edge over Argus Filch.

"Let me look," I said now to Potter, neutrally. I had to strive to keep the judgement out of my voice. But it was not upon him. It was upon me.

Gently I took his arm. There were three cuts, progressively deeper, but he had not hit any arteries or tendons. The blood welled in a continuous fountain. I held my hand above the cuts and murmured. The blood-flow eased to a trickle. That would have to do until I could get him proper medical help. I wanted to talk to him. Now: while the shock of the moment was upon him and he could not deny what he had done.

"Have you done this before?" I asked him. Again, I kept my voice low and calm.

"No," he murmured. He flickered a look at me. "But… I've thought about it.."

I nodded slowly, and ran a hand through my hair. At least he had not yet got into the habit. It might be possible to stop him before it became an addiction.

There was another question I must ask.

"Where you trying to hurt yourself?" I inquired. "Or…to damage yourself on a more permanent basis?"

He shifted uncomfortably next to me. "I wasn't trying to kill myself, if that's what you mean," he muttered. "Even if I wanted to…I…can't, can I?"

I paused. That was a curious way of phrasing it. "Why not?"

He gave me a look as if I were stupid. "How can I kill myself when I'm supposed to be the one who kills Voldemort?" he demanded. "I expect that will finish me off for good, so I'll just have to wait until then, won't I?"

I swallowed. I was unexpectedly moved by this line of reasoning. Oh, you noble Gryffindor, I mocked: painfully.

"Harry," I said, somewhat huskily. "Would you like me to fetch Professor Dumbledore?"

"No!" he said immediately, sounding rather panicked by the notion.

"I just thought… you may prefer to talk to him about this rather than to me. But I think it is important that you speak to someone."

"No. Not Dumbledore." He glanced at me again. His voice went even softer. "Please."

Please.

I sighed again. I did not want to be here. I did not want to be dealing with this.

"All right," I said carefully. "Who would you like to talk to? I can have Remus Lupin fetched…Molly Weasley…"

"No! I don't want them to know! I couldn't – No!"

He was getting more agitated, which was the last thing I wanted.

"All right," I said again. "But we cannot leave it there, you know."

He didn't speak. He seemed to collapse in on himself somehow. He reminded me of a sparrow huddled on a branch in a storm. He looked lost. Alone.

Tentatively, I put my arm across his shoulders. I was not very adept at offering physical comfort, but I believed this was an appropriate move to make.

It seemed to be, for he sniffed, and smiled slightly. I sat there with him in silence for some moments, his wounded arm still cradled in bloodied towels and resting across his knee.

"What hurts so much, Harry?" I asked quietly.

He moved again, a wriggle of discomfort.

"Uh – well, you know."

I waited. I marvelled at my own patience.

"You know how much people care about you, don't you?" I said to him at last. "Lupin, Dumbledore, the Weasleys.. not to mention your schoolfriends."

"I know."

"Is it the Dursleys?"

"No – yes – I don't know." He seemed to sink further into himself. I pondered. I recalled all the things he had said to me when he thought I could not hear him.

Harry looked white and strained, as well he might. I remembered, with a pang, that the antidote potion I had given him would have made it even more difficult for him to control his feelings. I should have kept a closer eye on him… I had simply not grasped the depth of his depression.

Perhaps, anyway, that was enough for now. The topic was broached. I would not let it slip back under the rug. Truth be told, I was not sure I could cope with much more of this myself. My emotional equilibrium was undergoing violent assault from his pain and his need.

I wanted to shake him, hug him, yell at him: and protect him from all harm or hurt, in any form, ever.

"All right," I said briskly, clearing my throat. My voice was rather thicker than normal. "We need to get that arm healed."

"Not Madam Pomfrey," he said, looking nervous. "Couldn't you.."

"Nowhere near as competently," I told him.

"I don't care. I just.. Please."

There it was again. Please.

I found I could not deny him. I did have a healing kit in my chambers with fresh bandages. The cuts were surgically clean; there was no risk of infection or complications.

I really shouldn't be doing this. It was the rule of the school. Injured students were treated by the Medi-witch unless in an emergency (or unless you were a lunatic incompetent named Lockhart). But I did it. I patched him up. Even with the strongest healing magic I could lay on him, the arm would take some time to heal. Those cuts were deep.

Deeper yet went a change in me not visible to external eyes. Protest it as I might, deny it all I wished, I could not entirely quench the feeling seeping through me.

Grudgingly, I faced it. I cared about him.

Not just as an obligation, or a responsibility, or in a general 'we need to keep you whole and relatively sane so you can kill the Dark Lord for us' kind of way.

I cared about him, personally: Harry.

I wondered whether that would appal him, or amuse him.

Gloomily, I clung to the one constant bedrock factor. None of this made any difference to the fact established beyond doubt by his stunt with the Pollyanna potion.

The boy remained an idiot.

* * *

_Thanks, thanks, thanks to reviewers.. it makes my day when the fanficbot review email plops into my inbox. You're all very kind. And FAQ: the Fireheart, the Siren spell and the Pollyanna potion are all my own. I'd prefer Severus. But…sighs…_

Alynna Lis Eachann – lol, that' s even meaner than Snape!!!!

athenakitty – as you see, Snape is better on the nagging feeling than Harry actually being able to do anything well….

BeldaranCara – Thanks again for reviewing!

Catti – Thanks for review – will definitely keep on writing. After not so fun chapter, hope you still want me too!

Cdkobasiuk – I am flattered. Er, I hope this was sufficiently angsty?

Charlie-potter1 – ah, you always review. Thank you.

CloudMaxwellReincarnate – I hope you still like it!

Crookshanks87 – Thanks! As you see not quite poisoned;…suicidal Harry? not so far off the mark!

empathicsiren- thank you!

Jaws – Goodness! I couldn't bear to have your demise by starvation or failure to work on my conscience! See? I have updated! Eat! Work!

Lady Lynn – not funny any more, but thanks for your review, and hope you still like it.

Marauders-Lover- Thanks!

monica85- hmm. What Harry Did….thanks for always reviewing!

Moon Lace – Than you! You are most kind…..

Padawan Jan-AQ – hehe – see next chapter

Prophetess of Hearts – This chapter wasn't all that funny. But I hope you are still liking it.

Pure Black – Thanks for regular reviewing!

Read300300 – Thanks loads for your reviews…you always have nice and interesting things to say.

rosiegirl – thanks as ever for always revewing.

Shadowed Hand – TY for regular reviewing. I guess you know what the ominous warning was by now!!!

ShaeLynn – sadly, you are so right! No longer particularly funny at moment, but will be again (I hope)

Silverthreads – Thanks for reviewing! Hehehe Yep…Pollyanna Potion….and as you saw, he felt more than awful upon coming down…

Snarkyroxy – oh yes the inconvenience of having to work is very great!!!! If I were JKR I wouldn't have to. BUT…..

Tiger Lily – thank you for the review!! No slash…but angst..yes

Vyxagallnxchi (er- Alleya was easier to spell!!!!)- thanks again for your thoughtful reviews. I liked the idea of the kitty too…she will return. Hissing.

WhiteWolf CS – you haven't actually reviewed the last chapter yet, but I so appreciated your reviews for the two previous! Yes. Poor dumb Harry.


	19. Occlumency

_Synopsis of last chapter for those who preferred not to read it, as promised: Harry, destablized by the Pollyanna antidote, cuts his arm in a moment of despair. Snape finally gives in to his instinct that all is not well, and goes to check on him. Grudgingly, he has to reluctantly admit that he does actually care about Harry._

* * *

I do not like emotions.

They are complicated, messy and in my experience invariably end up as some kind of variation on the theme of pain.

I like other people's emotions almost as little as I do my own. Normally, however, I can simply observe them from a nice, safe and dispassionate distance. Rather like watching some dangerous and undesirable creature tucked away at the zoo.

Not this time.

Potter's emotional disturbance affected me horribly. I could not look at the fat white bandage around his arm, now resting in a sling, without wanting to shudder. Every time he was out of my sight for more than five minutes at a time I began to get anxious.

The boy was making me as neurotic as he was himself.

I scowled across the room at him. He was scratching away at a letter, curled up in a chair. A frown creased his brow under the untidy black hair. Sensing my gaze, he glanced up. His face still wore an expression of mingled apprehension and shame. I appeared to be developing indigestion; as I looked at him I experienced a pain in my chest.

I re-arranged my features in a gallant attempt to cease scowling at him.

He looked puzzled.

Damn it, I didn't _have_ an expression which didn't in some way depend on an underlying scowl!

* * *

Harry wondered whether Snape had the tooth-ache. Every time Harry looked at him, he seemed to be contorting his face into peculiar shapes. 

As a whole, Harry felt rather like his arm did: patched up, but sore, and definitely fragile. The chasm still gaped within him, but he was not teetering on the brink: just tip-toeing around the edges. It was in some respects a relief to be with someone who knew the worst of him. He could stop trying, and stop pretending.

But poor Snape, Harry thought guility. Snape didn't even like him. This must be the worst sort of hell for him, and he had been so kind. Well: in Snape-ish snarky idiom, but still, undeniably kind. Harry returned to his letter. He was writing to Hermione. He had a special request for her: a particular purchase he wanted her to make on his behalf when next she visited Diagon Alley.

He chose not to say anything at all about potions or razors.

The knock on the door startled both himself and Snape. Frowning slightly, Snape strode across his chambers.

"Yes?" he barked. "Oh. Albus. You had better come in, I suppose."

Dumbledore did not seem put off by this gracious welcome, but smiled benignly at Snape and crossed the room to take a seat next to Harry.

"Harry," he said warmly. "How are you?"

His eyes tracked down Harry's chest and registered the sling, which Harry had been attempting to hide within the folds of his robes.

"Fine, thank you," Harry told him, a bit nervously. What was Dumbledore doing here? An odd forboding plucked at him.

"Could I trouble you for a cup of tea, Severus?" Dumbledore asked Snape.

Snape looked most put out at being despatched to the kitchen, and also rather reluctant to leave Harry and Dumbledore alone. But he went.

"Dear me, Harry," Dumbledore said, "You seem to have had a bit of an accident. How did you hurt your arm?"

Over Dumbledore's shoulder, Harry could see Snape lingering in the doorway to hear what reply Harry made.

For the first time, it occurred to Harry that he had put Snape in an awkward position. Snape was a teacher at Hogwarts, and he was a student who had put himself at risk. And he had pleaded with Snape not to tell anybody.

"Oh," Harry said vaguely, "I fell over. Clumsy of me, I know."

"What was Madam Pomfrey's diagnosis?" Dumbledore asked, his blue eyes looking at Harry keenly.

His voice was bland, but Harry had an uncomfortable sense that he was probing, and knew something was being kept from him.

"Oh," Harry said. "I wouldn't go and see her. Snape tried to make me – "

"_Professor_ Snape," Dumbledore murmured.

" – but I didn't want to, I practically live in the infirmary when I'm at Hogwarts, and there wasn't much damage anyway."

Harry was almost certain Dumbledore knew he was lying. The old man gave him a long, considering look.

Harry sighed with relief as Dumbledore changed the subject.

"And how is the Occlumency coming along? Have you got started on the lessons yet?"

"Yes," Snape said, looming suddenly over Dumbledore's shoulders. He was holding a pink tea-tray with a frilly doily and a multi-coloured knitted tea-cosy. Dobby's handiwork, Harry was sure. Snape, tall and bat-like as ever in his black robes, looked so ridiculous carrying it that Harry had to stifle an urge to laugh.

Snape noticed, and looked at Harry sourly.

"Here," Snape said snappily, laying the tray down. "I assure you the decorations are not of my choosing. The house-elf left a tray laid ready earlier when he realized his beloved Harry Potter was coming to stay."

Dumbledore twinkled. "How very nice. I'm glad Dobby is looking after you.. So, Severus, you have made a start with the Occlumency?"

"Yes," Snape replied. "Oddly enough, yes. In an – er - unguarded moment, Potter was actually successful."

Dumbledore looked astonished. "Already? That's wonderful news! Well done, Harry!"

Harry saw Snape scowling at him and tried to retrieve his dropping jaw. _When_ had he done Occlumency? He didn't remember this! Unless…had Snape tried to read him while he was high on Pollyanna, and not been able to?

"Yes," Harry ventured. "Er – I've found out I can do it if I'm not thinking about it. Sort of." He sneaked a look at Snape, who seemed to think this answer was acceptable. At least he wasn't glowering any more than was normal.

Dumbledore sipped his tea. He looked entirely relaxed. The same could not be said of either Harry or Snape. Snape's glare deepened as Dumbledore held out his cup for another cup of tea. Harry was almost positive he saw a malicious twinkle in Dumbledore's blue eyes, as he savoured his second cup. And then his third.

Finally, Dumbledore rose to go. "Well, Severus," he said genially. "All seems to be well. I know I can rely on you to keep a close eye on your young friend here."

Snape looked as though he would happily have wound Dumbledore's long beard around his neck, and twisted.

* * *

My – what? 'Young friend,' indeed. 

I pondered Dumbledore's last words with misgiving. Was there some hidden meaning in them? Did he, in the uncanny way he had, know or guess that within a few hours of arriving here I had permitted Potter to half-kill himself?

Well. To business. It would do Potter no good just to mope about the place. He seemed reasonably calm at the moment, but whatever despair had driven him to attack his own flesh could not be far from the surface. Occlumency, in fact, ought to help: it depended on letting go of the emotions. A feat that had always seemed well beyond Potter's meagre powers of self-control.

Still, I reflected: it was possible the time might be ripe to review my pedagogic methods. The last time I had taught Potter Occlumency, I seemed to recall that he spent rather a lot of time keeling over and hitting his head on the floor. I didn't think his health was sufficiently recovered for that mode of instruction just yet.

"Potter," I said at last. "Do you have any recollection of how you stopped me reading you when you were under the influence of that blasted Potion?"

"No. Sorry."

"It was when your scar was hurting…"

Harry frowned in an effort to remember. "I was feeling really dreamy then… I just remember being sort of floaty."

"I suspect that was the effect which blocked your mind from mine. You may recall," and my voice darkened, "I told you _repeatedly_ last time I was in this unhappy position that the key to Occlumency is clearing your mind.."

"Yes," Harry agreed. He looked anxious to be co-operative. "I just don't know how to do that."

I sighed, with deep bitterness. I had in fact thought of one way to help him acquire skill in Occlumency. I simply did not wish to pursue it.

Our previous lessons had followed the model on which I had learned myself: I had attacked his mind, to goad him into defending it..However, I had to concede it was just faintly possible he might learn better by example.

_Damn_ Dumbledore.

"It may help if you understand the whole process better," I said finally, irritated. My mouth felt as if I had sucked on a particularly sour lemon as I forced the next sentence out."You may conduct Legilimency on me."

He looked startled. "Me? Er – read your mind?"

"Legilimency is not mind-reading, Potter! How many times…"

The boy looked petrified at the thought of entering my head. Ha. How did he think I felt?

"This can be controlled to a certain extent, Potter, when undertaken with agreement and not as an act of hostile magic. You will understand that there are a number of memories I do not wish you to access. It will be obvious when you encounter one such, because I will begin to resist you. I am trusting you not to pursue such memories and to retreat immediately."

Quite aside from a number of very personal memories, I had no intention of letting him stray into certain other areas of my mind: he had enough nightmares on his own account.

"You'll trust me to do that?" Harry sounded astonished.

"I have just said so, haven't I?" I said waspishly. I sniffed to myself. All this trauma had clearly had a most unhealthy effect on my brain.

I sat down and folded my arms across my chest.

"Begin."

I fixed him with a stony stare.

* * *

Harry eyed Snape's rigid and forbidding form. He looked like a condemned man stoically awaiting execution. A condemned man who might break and make a run for it at any moment. 

"_Legilimens_," Harry said faintly, waving his wand and peering unwillingly into Snape's glaring eyes.

Nothing happened. Harry suspected it was because he didn't actually want it to.

Snape snorted in exasperation. "No, Potter, haven't you learned anything in six years at Hogwarts? You don't just waft your wand around as if it is a feather duster. Like this."

Snape demonstrated the correct movements.

"OK," Harry said. "Here goes. _Legilimens_."

And then, he blinked. It was as though a door opened, and behind it, a great mass of images and memories whirled and shifted. He sensed a great discomfort. Snape was not happy. He continued, however, to allow Harry to enter his thoughts.

There was a small boy with lank black hair and pale skin.

"Here, kitty," he was saying enticingly. "Aw, come on Santa, I'm not going to hurt you.."

A purple cat was regarding the boy balefully from the roof of a garden shed. Her tail twitched. She looked distinctly ruffled. _Don't you dare_, her crouched form said, outraged dignity in every line.

An even smaller boy, possibly about three, playing on his own with some toy Galleons. Two women came into the room. One was meek and mousy; she looked anxious, and rather unwell. The other was brisk, and carried a clipboard emblazoned with a logo Harry recognized: the Ministry of Magic.

The boy scowled, and hunched a shoulder.

"Hello, Severus," the Ministry woman said brightly. She reminded Harry of one of his primary school teachers. "Are you having fun?"

The boy did not grant this question the compliment of a response. He ignored both women.

"Are you having a nice game? Now, then, if I took those Galleons across to Diagon Alley, would I be able to spend them?"

The boy gave her a contemptuous look with cold black eyes.

"No," he grunted finally, continuing to stack his fake coins with stubby little fingers.

"Why not, Severus?" the woman asked. "Why wouldn't I be able to spend your Galleons?"

He gave her another look. _Stupid female_, it said.

"'Cos they're _mine_," he growled at her. His bottom lip thrust out in sudden fury as both women began to laugh, the mousy one with a hand pressed to her mouth as if mirth were forbidden.

The scene faded into another. Harry felt a burst of pain.

"I'm sorry.." the boy, older now, was gabbling to a tall man bending threateningly over him, belt in hand. "I'm sorry, I'll get it right next time, I'm sorry…"

Harry became conscious of resistance. He released the memory swiftly.

A whirl of places he didn't recognize, people he didn't know, overlain by a brooding sardonic presence.

A tall girl with red hair and green eyes.

Harry tasted yearning and loss for a fleeting moment before the memory dissolved. He concentrated. But the images were floating away from him; snatch at them as he might, they were sinking into a cool, bottomless lake – fainter and more slippery with every moment.

Harry found he could no longer penetrate the sleek surfaces of Snape's mind. It was not that Snape had raised any barriers to block him; rather he had sunk his memories into a well so deep Harry could not follow.

"There," Snape said stiffly. "Do you understand now? Because I can assure you I have no intention of allowing you to ferret through my memories on a regular basis."

Harry nodded slowly. He recalled how it had felt as Snape's mind faded away.

"I think so…" he said uncertainly. He did have a better idea what he was supposed to be aiming at. He just still had no confidence that he would actually be able to do it.

* * *

I made him sit down before we began. I stifled an urge to fetch him a cushion. If only he would stop looking so…. _vulnerable_. I realized I was scowling at him again. 

In keeping with my new approach, I did not enter his head with the mental equivalent of a sledgehammer, but slipped softly inside.

His thoughts were chaotic as ever. My lips thinned as I rifled once more through memories of his early childhood.

"Come on, Potter," I grunted. "Resist. Don't just let me take a casual stroll through your head."

I went in search of thoughts he wished to keep from me. Ah yes, that was better…he did not like this one…a Hogwarts room. I recognized it. Umbridge's office. Potter was serving detention. No doubt well deserved. He was scratching away with a quill. A sharp pain ran across my hand.

"What..?"

_I must not tell lies_, he was etching onto the surface of his hand. _I must not tell lies_. Blood dripped as he dug the sharp tip again and again into his inflamed skin.

I released him from the spell, shocked.

"Why didn't you tell anyone?" I demanded. I was angry.

"If anyone had tried to interfere, she'd just have passed another decree," he shrugged.

_Toad_ of a woman. It was fortunate indeed for her that Dumbledore had confined me to the Hogwarts castle. There were times when a Death Eater training could be a distinct advantage.

I returned to Potter's head. More recent memories here. I trod carefully. Lostness. A vast plain of dull misery….

* * *

Harry grimaced, waves of despair crashing against him again. 

No use…it was no use…he was lost, alone, and he _couldn't do what they wanted_ _of him_…

The prophecy, etched into his skull, echoed through his thoughts….

_"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches . . . born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not . . . and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives …" _

Helpless rage filled him.

He didn't want Snape there with him. It was too personal. He pushed. _Go away_. Snape was still there, sorting through Harry's fierce unhappiness, strand by strand.

_No_. Let it go, Harry thought, let it go…he took in a deep breath and thought hard of the feeling when Snape's own mind had slipped through his fingers, sank away….

Harry found himself blinking at Snape, his thoughts safely where they belonged at the back of his own head.

"I did it!"

"Yes. Finally."

Snape looked agitated. Harry was momentarily puzzled. He had thought Snape would be pleased.

* * *

So that was it, I thought, disturbed. That was the prophecy Dumbledore had been keeping so close to his chest. The Order knew what it contained in general terms. But he had never revealed the exact wording. 

I had a dreadful suspicion as to why.

I looked at Potter. He was smiling, gratified to have made some progress with Occlumency at last.

Did he guess, I wondered? Did he know what the wording of prophecy implied?

Probably not. I doubted he had ever troubled to research the matter. He had obviously not yet consulted Granger about it.

I was assaulted by another bout of indigestion, harsh and burning.

I did not like emotions. No. Not at all.

And _damn _Dumbledore!


	20. Revelations

With some relief, I fed Potter the final dose of antidote to Pollyanna potion. That should restore him to whatever passed for stability in his chaotic brain. 

I sighed. Not long ago, I would have come as close to laughing as ever I did at the thought of the invincible, arrogant Harry Potter falling apart at the seams.

Partly because the concept would have been ludicrous. And partly because it would – well, yes, I will confess: it would have amused me.

I thought nostalgically back to those happy times. And now here I was, wrestling earnestly with a pastoral dilemma revolving around that very same Harry Potter.

I wanted, quite urgently, to go and see Dumbledore. And yet, I didn't dare leave Potter on his own. I half-rose, then sat down again, then fastened my gaze on the object of all this unaccustomed indecision.

I tapped my fingers on the arm of my chair and brooded

I looked up to find Potter regarding me steadily.

"It's all right, you know," he told me. "You want to go somewhere, don't you? You can leave me. I won't… I mean…"

"I suppose I could call the house-elves," I murmured, half to myself.

"No!" Potter said indignantly. "I told you. I'll be OK. Really, I'm not going to do anything. I feel….better now."

So he said. But what if…. I tapped my fingers some more, mouth twisting.

"Give me your wand," I said abruptly.

"What?" He was incredulous. His cheeks flushed hot, with humiliation or anger.

"Your wand. Give me your wand."

"You're joking."

"No, Potter, I am not."

I rose, and stalked to the kitchen. I set powerful sealing charms on the drawers containing knives.

Likewise, I spell-locked my potions cabinet. Just in case he decided to get more creative in his quest to cause himself harm.

Short of stripping my chambers completely bare and padding the walls, I could not think of any other measures I could reasonably take.

He was furious. His eyes snapped at me. Something relaxed inside me; the universe was settling back into far more comfortable and familiar shapes. Potter mad at me. Me mad at Potter.

This was more like it.

"I said it was all right to leave me!" he said angrily. "You're not my jailor!"

"Your wand," I repeated. My teeth were beginning to hurt, so hard were they clenched together.

Fuming, he slung it at me. It hit my knuckles as I caught it, and I winced. Satisfaction flared in Potter's green eyes.

"Are you going to lock me in as well?" he demanded.

"That was the general plan," I agreed, smoothly. "Now, Potter-"

"So you're going off to have a little chat with Dumbledore about me, are you?"

He was quivering with annoyance.

As it so happened, yes, I was going to have a little talk to Dumbledore about him. But not on the topic he so palpably feared… although it would not surprise me to learn Albus had already come to certain conclusions about the bandage on his arm. Knowing practically everything was one of the Headmaster's less agreeable habits, ranking alongside his infernal obsession with dispensing tea and children's sweets.

"So everyone will know I've finally flipped!" Potter flung at me.

"Potter –" I said between gritted teeth. My head was starting to ache. He was _infuriating_. And I didn't dare say to him all the scathing comments poised on the tip of my tongue.

In case I _upset_ him.

"Right," he said huffily. "Fine."

I growled in my throat. What did the boy expect? A few hours ago he had locked himself in my spare room and bled all over my best fluffy towel.

"I want to go to the Owlery!" he announced.

I considered, and sighed rather heavily. I supposed I couldn't really keep him locked in for a week. And perhaps it would do him good to get out of the castle. Merlin knew, I wanted to do so enough.

And nearly all the staff were back now…for the first time in my entire life I regretted the absence of the moronic Hagrid. At least I could have entrusted Potter to his care for a few hours, secure in the knowledge that disembowelment by one of Hagrid's pet monsters was the worst that could befall him.

"All right," I said grudgingly.. "But I keep your wand."

We glared at each other. Then I turned on my heel and marched away.

* * *

Harry spent quite a lot of time in the Owlery. Hedwig nestled on his shoulder and occasionally pecked him gently when she wanted her head scratching. She seemed to realize all was not well; she had gazed at Harry very intently with her great amber eyes, hooting softly, before taking up her customary position on his shoulder. 

Harry felt a rush of affection for her.

Finally, he pulled some letters out of his pocket.

"Here you are, Hedwig. One's for Ron and one's for Hermione. They're both .. you know where. Could you hang around for a bit when you get there? I've asked Hermione to send me something back."

Hedwig hooted again as Harry tied the messages to her leg. She was clearly reluctant to leave.

"Go on," Harry said to her. "It's OK. I'll be all right."

Hedwig gave a final disbelieving hoot before soaring off into the distance.

Harry wandered outside and sat on a bench by the lake. It was quite cold; although it was still summer, nights were drawing in. He didn't mind, however; it suited his mood. The lake reminded him of how he had sank his thoughts away from Snape when at last succeeding in Occlumency.. He practised letting his thoughts and emotions go…there was a restful, but rather chill, emptiness about it…

The cold became too much in the end. He stood up, cradling his sore arm. _It is just how I feel_, he thought dully. _Like there's a gash inside that won't heal…_

He made his way back to the dungeons. Humiliation washed over him; Snape clearly thought he was not fit to be alone. How Snape must hate having him there, he thought glumly. Considering the dearest wish of Snape's heart for years had been to set eyes on Harry as little as possible, it was rather ironic that the man now hardly dared to let Harry out of his sight…Harry sighed. Ron would collapse of apoplexy if he knew: but Harry rather wished Snape actually liked him. At least a little bit.

* * *

Dumbledore did not look surprised to see me. He wore an expression of unusual gravity. 

"Severus. Thank you for taking care of Harry during this difficult time."

I said nothing. But it sounded as though my surmise was correct: Dumbledore somehow knew what had happened.

"I see matters are worse even than I had suspected."

Still I said nothing.

"I am sure I can trust you to help him through it, however. Where is he now?"

"He's gone to the Owlery," I said grudgingly. "But Potter's state of mind is not why I am here – "

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. "You seem distressed," he observed. "May I fetch you something?"

"No," I said curtly. "Actually, you may tell me something." I leaned in across the desk."I have heard the prophecy."

Dumbledore froze momentarily. "Ah, yes," he murmured. "Occlumency lessons. I should have foreseen this."

It was his turn to say nothing. He merely gazed at me sorrowfully, and waited for me to continue.

"The Lay of Halbert and Taveon," I said, stonily. I bored my eyes into his face.

The Lay of Halbert and Taveon was an epic poem, part of ancient wizarding lore. Muggles have their Robin Hoods, their King Arthurs, and their Beowulfs. Wizards have Halbert and Taveon.

The tale concerned rival princes, who became mortal enemies. They were cursed by the mother of one died as a result of their personal war: enmity would forever lie between them, but their souls would be tied one to another in this life and beyond.

"You noticed," he sighed. "Yes. The similarities are quite striking, aren't they?"

He waved a hand, and summoned one of his books. It fell open at a certain page. I suspected he had examined that particular page very many times.

He probably knew the story by heart, anyway. But his eyes were on the book as he slowly recited one of the final verses.

'Mightily they strove;

Did Halbert

Did Taveon

As the suns sank on the Plains of Temathia

_For either must die at the hand of the other_

sang the sparrows

As the world reddened with the blood of the heroes

Sinking down to that long dusty shore.

_For neither can live while the other survives_

cawed the ravens.

And still they strove, till the rivers

Ran red, and the earth

Ran red, and the skies

Ran red, with the setting of the suns.

_But both must die if the one is to perish_

mourned the seagulls.

Yes, mightily they strove.

Died Halbert

Died Taveon

On the crimson plains,

The crimson Plains of Temathia."

Dumbledore's voice trailed off. "Yes," he said again. "As you say, the parallels are most striking. We were interrupted, you know…when Sybill delivered the prophecy. We were in the Hog's Head. There had been an eavesdropper, and the bartender came to tell me he had thrown the individual off the premises…"

"So," I continued, relentless. "There could have been another line to the prophecy. As in the poem. You got 'For either must die at the hand of the other...for neither can live while the other survives.' We might be missing the rest of it. 'But both must die if the one is to perish…'."

"Yes," Dumbledore agreed. "We could. It seems, in fact, rather likely...."

We were silent for a long moment.

"Does he know?" I demanded.

"No. I thought…it best if he remained ignorant of this for as long as possible. He might, if he knew, lose all hope…"

I groaned, and closed my eyes. I was irresistibly reminded of lambs gambolling merrily along to the slaughter.

"Well, that makes it all very convenient, doesn't it?" I said finally, examining my fingernails. "Since there is no doubt about the outcome, you can plan the funeral in advance, can you not? I, of course, shall wear black. What about you, Albus? What are you planning to wear?"

"Severus –"

"So have you written your funeral oration yet?" I continued, in conversational tones. "Perhaps Potter would care to help you out. Since he is to meet his end for the benefit of the wizarding world, it seems only fair he should have some say in how he is remembered by us."

"Severus – "

"Or we could invite Rita Skeeter over for an interview. I am sure the readership of the _Daily Prophet_ would be fascinated by an article on the topic. 'So how do you feel _now_, Harry, about being the Boy Who Won't Live Much Longer'? "

"_Severus!_"

I subsided. Dark fury possessed me.

"I realize this is difficult, but do try to understand," Dumbledore said quietly. "None of this was my choice. You must see that. The prophecy was not of my making, and I wish more than I can express that circumstances were different. But…they are not…."

"I know," I grated out, after a long pause. "It just….."

" ….it just doesn't seem fair. I know. I have wrestled with this since before Harry was born. And it is very hard, not only on Harry, but on all of us who care for him..and yes, Severus, I do include you in that category, protest it as you might."

I could not even summon the will to dispute the issue. Certainly the prospect of the brat's certain death in the near future was having a most unpleasant effect on me.

"What if we send him away?" I asked, casting about for alternatives to the grim scenario laid out before me. "To some country in a different part of the globe where the Dark Lord has no agents?"

"Then," Dumbledore sighed, "Lord Voldemort will rise in power, as near to invincible and immortal as any human being can attain. And all the horrors that took place last time he held sway will seem like the first tentative steps of a child…"

"So, then," I said flatly. "Potter must die. We are all agreed."

I allowed my words to hang in the air between us, as though I had sketched them there with my wand:

_Potter must die._

Dumbledore said nothing. He looked stricken.

"Well. As we have said. Potter must die. Are we not, therefore, colluding in his death?" I asked, my voice very soft. "Do we have the right to make such a decision? That was the way of it in ancient days, wasn't it? When one person was chosen as sacrifice to the gods or to dragons for the prosperity of all. Don't we now consider that a barbarous way to conduct human civilization?"

"Yes," Dumbledore whispered. "We do. It is barbarous. But : it will not be our choice, at least. It will be his."

His choice. Oh, yes. His choice. _"How can I kill myself when I'm supposed to be the one who kills Lord Voldemort?"_ he had demanded, blood dripping from his arm.

"You have trained him well," I said thinly to Dumbledore, with an ironic bow.

I strode away. I think if I had come across the boy there and then I would have gathered him to me, and personally transported him to a remote corner of Australia.

But, I had to concede - with the greatest of reluctance - I could see Dumbledore's point. How could one choose the suffering and deaths of the many, the many….to protect one idiot boy?

And besides: were I to send him to the other side of the world for his own protection, Potter being Potter, he would quite certainly just come back. The willing lamb to the slaughter.

Despite his very best efforts, he might not manage to plague me entirely to distraction through his life. But this was not important. He would, I thought bitterly, achieve his end very amply through his death.

I took a deep breath, and concentrated on stones.

Stones were unbending. Stones were indifferent. You could not hurt a stone.

_No_, a part of my brain breathed to me in a whisper, _You cannot hurt a stone._

_But you can smash it, if you hit it hard enough._

_

* * *

_

Yet again thanks to reviewers................

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**Lady Lynn** Time? Time ? I just don't sleep…..

**Catt**i glad you like it! Hope you still do!

**athenakitty** ah well questions like that can only be answered as plot develops….

**Jaws **hehe, you have spotted a plotline…which will recur


	21. Start of Term Feast

_Mm. Yes. Last chapter was bit depressing...but perhaps a ray of light can be seen through the gloom?!_

* * *

Hedwig floated onto Harry's shoulder with a soft hoot. She looked around disapprovingly. She did not care for dungeons. 

"Hedwig! You're back!" Harry exclaimed in delight, caressing her feathers.

Eagerly he removed the parcel attached to her leg.

There was a letter from Ron:

_Dear Harry,_

_Hope you're feeling better now. Have to say, you did seem quite down when you left. Well, since they've gone and made you stay with Snape again, course you're not going to be feeling great! Bet he was really mad it was you who saved his life last month, he'll have to be grateful to you now! Well, never mind, mate, only a few more days now and we'll all be turning up._

_Hermione's Head Girl, has she told you? It was pretty obvious it would be her, really. Ernie Macmillan's Head Boy. At least it isn't Malfoy, how awful would that be._

_Not much been happening here. In fact it's pretty boring. Loads of people said to say hi but I can't remember all of them, you'll know who I mean I expect._

_See you soon!_

_Ron._

Harry smiled slightly, and laid the parchment aside. Then he picked up the next letter, which he assumed (correctly) would be from Hermione.

_Dear Harry,_

_Thanks very much for your letter, I was worried about you. I found what you wanted in Diagon Alley, as you might have seen by now._

_You'll never guess, I've been made Head Girl! I'm a bit concerned about it, actually. I mean it's a lot of extra responsibility, and it is our NEWT year and everything._

_I have messages for you from Tonks, Moody, Kingsley, Mr and Mrs Weasley, Ginny, Fred, George, and Lupin. They all send their love._

_Harry, I do hope you're working at the Occlumency this time. You know how important it is._

_Anyway, I need to go. I haven't read all the set texts for this year through again yet. You miss so much on the first couple of readings, don't you find?_

_Love_

_Hermione._

Harry smiled again, feeling guilty for his surliness with Ron and Hermione over the past few weeks. Finally, he picked up the little package that he had requested Hermione to buy for him.

Yes.. it was just what he had wanted. He stored it carefully away. He had another Occlumency lesson scheduled. He was starting to rather enjoy the mental battles, now he had got the hang of it. He was a bit disappointed that Snape had apparently thought it necessary to borrow Dumbledore's Pensieve again, though.

Still. He began to clear his mind by way of preparation.

* * *

At last, I thought. The Hogwarts train would be arriving within the hour. Potter would finally be departing from my spare room, my personal life, and - I rather hoped – from my list of things to worry about. Once he was back where he belonged in the Gryffindor common room, I would cease to be responsible for anything except his execrable Potions-making, and I could endeavour to forget the events of the summer had ever happened. 

Yes. I was looking forward to it.

I had taken the bandages off his arm earlier that day, and given him an unguent salve which should remove most of the scarring. (_Because that is going to be oh so important in his future career, isn't it,_ an inward voice sneered. Sternly, I silenced it.)

I was scratching away at my notes when he gathered up his remaining belongings and made to depart.

"OK," he said. "I'm going now."

I muttered something under my breath, glancing up for the briefest of moments.

"I just wanted to say," he said, rather more loudly, "thanks. I think I've finally got the hang of Occlumency, and, thanks as well for...well...you know."

I waved a hand vaguely in his direction. He knew where the door was, why wasn't he walking through it by this stage?

I was obliged to put my quill down, though, because Potter did not move towards the door – he approached my desk and laid a small package in front of me.

"This is for you," he said gruffly. "As a thank you."

I stared at the package for a long moment, then looked up at Potter. I was startled. I could not remember the last time I had been given a present. Ah yes – now I recalled. It had turned out to be...well, let us just say unpleasant substances. Given to me in order to amuse certain persons in my class at school.

My lips thinned.

Slowly, I picked the package up. Potter showed no sign of moving. I supposed it would be ungracious to send him on his way, so I could open whatever he had given me in privacy.

I removed the wrappings. Beneath, there was some sort of pin device. I did not know what it was.

"It's a dicta-pin. You attach it to your robes," Potter told me. He sounded anxious. "It's sort of like – well, an audio-Pensieve. It can record your thoughts for you, and then transcribe them ... I thought it would be useful for you in the lab, you know...so you don't have to be always stopping to write stuff down..."

I stared at the dicta-pin for a long moment. Slowly I turned it in my fingers. I did not know what to say.

"OK, then," Potter said finally. "I'm off now...yeah..well. Thanks."

I held the dicta-pin the palm of my hand as he turned to leave. There was an odd tightness in my throat. He was half-way through the door before I managed to force the words out.

"Potter!" I said imperatively. He turned "I -...Thank you. It was a.... thoughtful gift. Thank you."

Then I turned back to my researches. I was scratching away with my quill when I heard the door bang shut.

Potter was gone.

* * *

"HARRY!" Hermione squealed, throwing her arms around his neck. 

"Hi mate." "Hello, Harry!"

Harry grinned at them. He had waylaid Ron, Neville,Ginny and Hermione on their way into the Great Hall.

"So how was life with Sunny the Cheerful Bat?" Ginny demanded brightly.

"You survived all right then!"Ron said. No missing limbs or anything? Snape never tried to blow you up sort of accidentally on purpose?"

Harry's smile faded a little. "No," he said seriously, in reply to Ron. "He was really nice to me."

Ron snorted disbelievingly as they took their place at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall. "Right." All sorts of rich and appetizing smells wafted towards them. The table was laden with a great array of dishes. Harry's mouth watered.

Harry settled into the hubbub. _You remember how to do this_, he said to himself firmly, as he laughed and smiled along with the others.

He wished he was back in the security and tranquillity of Snape's chambers.

Ron, at least, was fooled. He was quite visibly relieved that Harry was acting more like his usual self. Hermione said nothing, but she looked at Harry speculatively from time to time. Harry saw her eyes track from him to Snape at the staff table.

Harry couldn't help it. His eyes followed hers.

Snape was scowling at his plate, shoulders hunched, radiating bad temper. The teachers around him were obviously used to his merry and sociable disposition at the dinner table, and talked over him with unconcern.

As Harry observed him, Snape glanced up. He directed a particularly nasty scowl in Harry's direction and looked away almost at once.

Harry sighed. He was going to miss Snape, he realized. Suffering his sarcasm while sitting in Potions classes with scoffing Slytherins would hardly be the same.

"Harry! _Harry!_" Ron prodded him. "Have you decided who you're going to take to the seventh year party?"

"Huh?"

"The seventh year party! You know!"

Harry blinked, remembering. The Sorting Hat's continued call for friendship and unity at Hogwarts had encouraged staff to arrange inter-House social events. There are been some modest successes. And so far there had only been two hospitalizations, three duels, and one exploding owl who had got caught in the middle.

"Oh.. I don't think I'll take anyone," Harry said at last. "You don't have to, do you?"

"No. It's just..." Ron's eyes slid sidewise to Hermione, who was talking animatedly to Ginny and Neville, and his ears went slightly red.

Ah, thought Harry. "It's all right," he said to Ron, feeling more genuinely amused than he had the whole evening. "You can take someone. Doesn't bother me. I mean, there'll be plenty of other people to hang around with, won't there?"

"You could ask someone," Ron encouraged him. "Doesn't have to be a seventh year, if they're a guest.." His eyes slid again: this time in Ginny's direction.

"I'm not taking anyone," Harry said firmly. "At least... I don't mind inviting Ginny or Luna, so they can come, but not as a date." He had quite enough to worry about, in his opinion.

Ron looked disappointed.

A second year student suddenly ran up to them, obviously petrified. He stopped in front of Hermione.

"Hermione Granger?" he babbled nervously.

"Yes?" she said kindly. "Is something the matter?"

"N-no, it's just... Professor Snape asked me to come and give you a message. He says can you come and see him in his office after the feast."

The second year dashed off again, obviously relieved to be out of the evil and dangerous clutches of the seventh year students.

"Snape?" Ron said aggressively. "What's he want with you, Hermione?"

"I've got no idea!" she said, seeming completely baffled. "Harry, you've seen Snape most recently..."

"I've got no idea, either," Harry said shortly. He felt slightly injured. Why was Snape sending for Hermione?

He shoved his fork into his treacle tart, and jammed a large chunk into his mouth.

At least it stopped people expecting him to speak to them.

* * *

It came to me during the middle of the Great Feast. 

I was hunched sourly at the staff table, regretting the tranquillity of the holidays, when I was allowed to eat my meals in solitary peace. (Well. Except for Potter)....But, really, it was most unfair, I thought, returning to my familiar grievance. Dumbledore didn't insist on Trelawney eating in the commons. He didn't make the centaur bring his haybag into the Great Hall.

Potter.

I raised my head, and found him staring at me. I gave him a repressive scowl and returned to contemplation of my plate.

Some time later, a familiar but most unwelcome voice smote my ears. "Severus, my dear..."

I groaned. Sybill Trelawney. What was _she_ doing here? My nostrils flared as her heavy, spicy perfume assaulted my senses.

Flitwick had bustled off after the main meal. I gathered that Trelawney wanted to take his place at the table and join me for coffee. I could hardly stop her, I supposed. At least, I could...but I was fairly confident Dumbledore would not approve use of those hexes that sprang to mind.

"I felt the need to come to talk to you," she informed me dreamily, fixing me with her bulging eyes. "My Inner Sight has been probing the mysteries of the universe..."

I grunted.

"...and I have Seen matters I feel I should inform you of. It is my sacred duty." She assumed a tragic and noble expression. I sipped my coffee gloomily, and endeavoured to give her a gentle hint by ignoring her completely.

She rustled crossly. "You do not seem very interested, but what I have seen concerns you very nearly..."

Oh, for Merlin's sake. Maybe if I got her to spit out quickly, she would make my evening and go away. "What?" I snapped.

"The cards," she intoned. "I received a powerful reading, and I am sure it is for you..."

I raised an eyebrow at her. That was all the encouragement she was going to get. She seemed disappointed. What had she expected? That I would raise my hand to my brow, gasp in fevered anticipation, and declaim my undying awe of her?

"So," she said finally, with a bit of a snap. "The cards... There was the King of Swords: a dark and scathing man." She looked at me pointedly, then clearly recalled she was supposed to be in the midst of a Mystic Fog, and resumed her dreamy air. "..the Fool...reckless, naïve, blindly stepping over the precipice...the Ten of Swords, ruin....the Devil, a dark power...the Page of Swords, the cool use of logic....the Hanged Man, the sacrifice....the Star..."

She smiled at me as if she had bestowed on me some great gift. I preferred the dicta-pin. I raised my hand to where it was pinned to my robes, then recalled myself abruptly; I had become aware that the corners of my mouth were starting to lift.

A nervous twitch, I dared say.

"All right," I sighed. "What does it all mean?"

She opened her eyes even wider. "Why, Severus, I fear it means your doom approaches."

She _always_ said that. _Every _time she Saw me with her Inner Eye, and Mystic Vision.

Divination. A thoroughly foolish branch of magical inquiry. You could interpret cards any way you wanted, it seemed to me...

I ran over the cards she had listed again. Different interpretations. Variant traditions. A memory wriggled in the depths of my mind.

"Thank you, Sybill," I said, for once sounding as if I might actually mean it, a gleam of triumph sparking in my eyes. She looked a little taken aback by my rather positive reaction to her reading. She would doubtless have preferred me to shrivel in horror at the thought of the dark fate in store for me. "Now if that is all..."

She got the message and drifted off in her cloud of shawls. I was breathing rather more rapidly, I realized. Now ... I needed... what did I need...

Help. I needed help. I needed somebody who could read Ancient Runes. Somebody who could keep their mouth shut. And somebody who was skilled in research.

Granger.

I needed Granger.

I allowed my gaze to rest on her bushy head, and sighed. I had spent most of the summer, it seemed, taking care of Potter, and now, I had to spend my leisure time with the Granger girl as well.

I leaned across the staff table and impaled a second year boy from Slytherin with my gaze.

"Damion!" I snarled. "Come here!"

Reluctantly, he approached the staff table, oozing fear. I wondered if someone had at some point transfigured him into a rabbit and not quite got the reversal spell correctly. "Y- yes, Professor Snape?"

"I want you to deliver a message."

Satisfied, I watched him scamper across to the Gryffindor table. I saw Granger's jaw drop. I watched Weasley square his shoulders aggressively. I watched Potter... look hurt? No.. Surely not...hurt...?

Once more, I ran through the cards Trelawney had mentioned.

The Star. She had definitely ended her recitation with that card. I knew what the Star meant.

Hope.

It meant hope.

* * *

CloudMaxwellReincarnate - Thanks lots! 

OntheOtherSideofDarknessLiesLight – wow, that's nice! How do I keep my facts straight? I am a HP geek who knows the books practically by heart...

we3 - Thanks for reviews!

Rasgara –TY!

Beth5572 – TY..updated as you see...

Padawan Jan-AQ – So glad you liked it. Yes, it was a bit sad.....but....

Meggplant – ooh, another new reviewer. grins....now Hermione, she can keep a secret (Lupin, the timeturner)... Ron? Now that is different....

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Read300300 – Thanks so much... I kind of enjoy the eternal youth of the internet, so I'm not telling you how old I am, but... I bet I've just had more practice!

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ShadowedHand – hmmm...yes... some sad themes....but..mm...well! can't say anything at this point....

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charlie-potter1 – yes, he is a sweetie really!

dobbiessweetie - I'm afraid I can't say at this stage where the story is going. But it is R-rated as angst/drama for 17 only, with a note in the summary that tragic consequences are a possible outcome......so readers can expect some painful and harrowing themes along the way.......That's all I can say just now. Sorry..........

Pure Black - TY

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lucidity – our brilliant Potions master is shortly to be on the case......And if there is any touching of Snape to be done...er I'll stop just about right there!

cdkobasiuk – yes, indeed.. Snape thinks it's horrid too....

athenakitty – TY..and Harry will I think find out..but when? Hmmm

crookshanks87 – TY – yes, the prophecy and its interpretation is going to be pivotal...

Lady Lynn – aw thanks.

rosiegirl – I expect it won't be long...I just can't put this story down!

snarkyroxy – Glad you are still addicted!!! I am, that's why I keep updating so quickly. The inconvenience of a full time job just does get in the way...


	22. Hermione's secret

I gave Granger a long, assessing look when she finally turned up at my office door.

She looked back, frowning, and shifting from foot to foot in her discomfort. I wondered vaguely what had happened to her teeth. They seemed less aesthetically displeasing than I recalled. Although it was many years, of course, since I had actually _looked_ at Granger, instead of simply registering her existence in my visual field.

"Sit," I said, pointing to the chair opposite my desk

She did so, clutching her hands nervously in her lap.

"I daresay you are wondering why I have sent for you," I said stiffly. From the expression on her face, that was possibly a tad of an understatement. I plunged on. "Well, Miss Granger. I find I have need of a research assistant."

She didn't say anything, but merely looked wary. I scowled. Blasted girl.

"I would like to offer you the position," I said finally, and a little more loudly, as the silence stretched on.

At last the girl spoke. "That's, that's very, kind of you, Professor Snape," she said carefully. "I'm – er – flattered. But I don't really want any extra responsibilities right at the moment."

My brows drew together. "Why not?" I demanded. "I am prepared to reimburse you!"

Hmm.Why not? When I considered the matter, I supposed it might not be entirely unrelated to the fact that I had taken every opportunity to cut her and her over-confident cronies back down to size over the past few years. But still. If I could manage to set aside my grudge at her for being an insufferable know-it-all, surely she too could attain to some slight grace, and lay aside these trivial differences.

"Well," the girl went on. "I'm Head Girl, you know, and this is our NEWT year. I really don't think I'm going to have time for anything else…"

I growled in my throat in exasperation. This was predictable, of course. I supposed I had realized all along that for this to work I was going to have to tell the girl the truth.

If I misjudged Granger and she went blabbing to Potter, Dumbledore would skin me alive, probably with one of my own splicing knives, and bottle me as potions ingredients.

I stood up, paced to the opposite side of the office, and began to re-arrange some of my pickle bottles.

"Would that be all, then, Professor?" Granger inquired eventually, in a _please-God-say-__yes _tone of voice.

"No." I turned, and gave her a fierce look. "Miss Granger, I am about to tell you something, and you must promise you will never reveal this information."

She seemed startled, but cautious. "If this is something I think Professor Dumbledore should know…" she began.

"The Headmaster is well aware of it already," I interrupted. "It is your schoolfriends I am thinking of."

She processed this information, face screwed up in thought. "All right," she replied. "I promise." I had the reassuring feeling that for Granger, this was a measured decision by which she would stand, not just a glib phrase falling from her lips.

"It concerns Potter." I paused. "Has he ever mentioned to you a prophecy made about him before his birth?"

"Yes," Granger responded. "I was there with him at the battle in the Department of Mysteries, if you remember. And last year, Harry told us that the prophecy wasn't lost for good after all, because Dumbledore had heard it when it was first given..."

"And what did he tell you the prophecy said?"

"That he was supposed to be the one who had the power to kill the Dark Lord," the girl said softly, with a catch in her voice. "And that he had to either kill Voldemort, or be killed by him…"

"That is certainly the gist," I agreed. "But it was not the exact wording."

With my back to the girl, I repeated the prophecy as I heard it in own Potter's own memories. I heard her sharp intake of breath.

"But.."

"You understand?" Her quickness irritated and pleased me in roughly equal measure.

"The Lay of Halbert and Taveon!" she breathed. "I studied it on my own for extra practice when I was revising Ancient Runes. That was the wording of the curse the princes were under. But…doesn't that end…"

"Yes," I cut across her. "_But both must die if the one is to perish_. And that is just what happened in the poem, as you will doubtless recall. They both died."

"No….oh, no, Harry…."

"Pull yourself together, Granger," I growled. "That will not help."

I still had my back to her. I could hear her sniffling. Girls are so emotional, I thought despisingly, banging my bottles around with force and blinking rather rapidly from the fumes.

"Tonight," I went on, when she seemed to have composed herself a little. "I also had the – ah - _pleasure_ of a visit from Sybill Trelawney. She had done a Tarot card reading and was convinced it was intended for me. It made me wonder… whether a different outcome to the prophecy was possible."

"Divination," Granger sniffed. Then she rushed on, earnestly. "I'd do anything to help Harry, you must know that, but, if that's what you want help with, I'm not the right person. I dropped it as soon as I could. There may be real prophecies, but as for the rest of it…"

"That is not what I require help with," I answered shortly. "Merely, the Tarot reading set me to thinking."

"Oh," Granger said. "Well…What was the reading?"

I told her. She pondered for a moment.

"That's exactly the way Trelaw – er, Professor Trelawney told it to you, is it?" she asked.

"Yes," I snapped. "I do still have all my cognitive faculties, you know."

Granger looked patient. She hung around with Weasley and Potter, so I supposed she had plenty of practice. "The order matters," she explained. "Where cards appear in a reading makes a difference. What sort of spread was it?"

I felt my brows drawing down. To be patronised by Granger was surely too high a price for the assistance I required… "She didn't say," I answered gruffly, just daring the girl to tell me I ought to have had the sense to ask.

"Then it was probably a straightforward seven-card horseshoe," she concluded. "Trelawney takes her layouts from _Madame Miranda's Mystic Marvels_. In that case...oh..!" She was staring at me, eyes wide, something that might have been awe or fear dilating her pupils. "Professor...Do you think...."

I was too proud to admit to her that I did not know what Madame Miranda's seven-card horseshoe comprised. I, too, had dropped Divination at the earliest opportunity.

"_What_?" I snapped.

"Oh, um, well, let's leave that bit aside for now," she said hurriedly, casting me a nervous look. "The outcome, the last card. That's what set you to thinking, isn't it? The Star…hope…"

"Yes," I grudgingly admitted.

"It's still…rather ambiguous, though, isn't it?" she said. "I mean…hope for whom, or what? For Harry.? Or you? Or all of us, once Voldemort is defeated…"

"Of course it's ambiguous," I snarled. "That is my _point_. That things can have _different endings_."

I hesitated. The idea I had seemed very far-fetched now I was trying to explain it to somebody else.

"Professor Snape," Hermione said finally. "What exactly is it you want me to do?"

I drummed my fingers on my desk. If the girl had the gall to laugh in my face… "The prophecy," I said abruptly. "It seems to take its form from the Lay of Halbert and Taveon, and the curse they were under, yes?"

"Yes," agreed Hermione. "It does seem like it."

"But…" I drummed my fingers some more. "I am nearly sure…I have a faint memory…that there is a different version of the poem. With a different ending….And it was that card reading that reminded me of it. I just..can't remember the details.."

Hermione, thank Merlin, seemed to be taking me seriously. "A variant tradition?" she said alertly. "Hmm…do you remember how it ended?"

"No," I rapped out, exasperated with myself. "I am, however, sure there is some obscure version in which Halbert did not, in the end, die along with Taveon…."

"So," Hermione concluded. "You want me to look in the old books in Runic and see if I can find any reference to a different version?"

"Yes."

"And from that…"

"Yes. To see how, in the story, they managed to avoid the curse. And to see if that gives us any clues as to we can manage to do it again…"

All right. It was a long shot. But it was certainly preferable to sitting around until such time we gave Potter a pat on the head and sent him merrily on his way to meet his doom.

* * *

Harry and Ron both looked curiously at Hermione when she returned to the Common Room. It was nearly a week since Snape had first summoned her, and as Ron put it: "Now she's always sloping off to go and see that greasy git!"

What was more, Hermione had been behaving oddly. Harry wondered if he was imagining it, but almost it seemed as though she was reluctant to look him in the eye. He was convinced she was hiding something. And as for Ron, she didn't get much opportunity even to try and look him in the eye; he was so annoyed with her for refusing to answer his questions satisfactorily, he tended to stomp off whenever she appeared. As far as Harry could tell, Ron had certainly not asked her to accompany him to the seventh year party.

Tonight, though, Ron seemed ready for another go at her. He and Harry were sitting in a quiet corner when Hermione came in. Ron was wiping the floor with Harry at wizarding chess. Rather hesitantly, as if unsure of her reception, she approached.

"So," muttered Ron, casting her a darkling glance. "You finally tore yourself away then?"

"I've been in the library most of the evening," Hermione said quietly.

"Right. Before you stopped off at Snape's private chambers, you mean."

"His office," Hermione corrected sharply. "I've never been in his private chambers."

Harry, who had been staring determinedly at the chess board, looked up quickly at this.

"Are you having it off with Snape?" Ron demanded baldly.

Hermione looked at Ron and Harry, her mouth dropping open. Fury suffused her features; she turned bright red.

"No, I most certainly am not!" she hissed. "I told you, he's asked me to be his research assistant."

"Yeah," said Ron, in no way mollified. The tips of his own ears, and his long nose, were also red. "Just what you need, on top of being Head Girl, and you so worried about your NEWTs. So what, exactly, are you researching for him, Hermione?"

Hermione fastened her lips firmly together. "Some stuff in ancient runes," she said finally, in an imperious tone. "You wouldn't understand. Not that it's any of your business, anyway. And, for the record, I went to see Professor McGonagall today. I've resigned as Head Girl. You're right: I have too much else to do."

And with that, she turned on her heel and marched to the stairway to the girls' dormitories, bushy head held high.

Ron and Harry stared after her.

"She's resigned as Head Girl!" Ron said at last, scandalized. "What the _hell_ is she doing with Snape, to think that's more important?"

"It's your go," Harry said tonelessly. He didn't want to think about Snape, or Hermione and Snape, or himself and Snape: or anything much at all, really.

Not to think was exactly the state he was still aiming for some hours later, as he lay restlessly in his bed. The dormitory seemed to close in around him. He could hear everybody else's breathing. It didn't comfort him; it seemed to fill his brain with other people's heavy demands and expectations and whispered accusations. Try as he might, he could not clear his mind in the way Occlumency had taught him.

Exasperated, he slid out of bed and pulled on his dressing gown. He would get into trouble if anyone found him, but perhaps a walk would help. A walk in the dungeons…Harry had learned from Snape that stones could be soothing, and were a good focal point for mind-clearing exercises.

The Fat Lady was dozing, and snorted a little in her sleep as Harry pushed aside the portrait and stepped out of the Gryffindor common room. Harry ghosted along the corridors. He should, he supposed, have brought his invisibility cloak….he was just asking to be caught, without it….

At last he was in the familiar territory of the dungeons. Snape's chambers were just around the corner. He was not going there, of course, Harry reminded himself. He just wanted to breathe in the heavy stillness and peace of the place…

There was a short flight of stairs ahead. Harry sat down on a step, leaning his face against the cold, rough wall. He pulled his dressing gown more closely around him. It was chilly down here.

Now he could practice his Occlumency…try to disentangle that painful mass of emotions that writhed inside and dragged him down…Harry closed his fingers around his left arm, and shut his eyes with a groan. The Occlumency simply wasn't working tonight…He bit down, hard, upon a sudden urge to slam his fist into the wall to relieve his frustration and misery.

Harry was so pre-occupied with his internal struggles, he did not notice the gliding approach of a tall figure.

* * *

Potter.

Potter in my dungeons in the middle of the night, and looking quite distraught.

I watched him in silence for long moments. Finally, he seemed to register that he was not alone. His eyes snapped open.

"Professor Snape…." he murmured.

My initial thought was to blast him to smithereens for wandering the corridors alone at night. That was expressly forbidden to all students, but should especially be heeded by Potter. Still, when had he ever paid any regard to the rules designed for his personal safety? Stupid boy.

The look on his face, though, gave me pause. I did not like it….I would go for the pastoral approach, I concluded.

"So, Potter," I said silkily. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I couldn't sleep," he murmured. "I couldn't clear my mind…I thought it might help, to be here, where it's so cold and quiet…"

I could hardly fault his logic. That was exactly why I preferred the dungeons myself.

He was shivering, I noticed. It was nearly winter. The dungeons of a Scottish castle are not precisely warm.

I opened my mouth to instruct him to return to Gryffindor tower at once, when I noticed that he was unthinkingly stroking his left arm, over and over.

Damn the boy.

"Get up, Potter," I said abruptly. "You will contract hypothermia sitting there. I will give you a hot drink before you return to your common room. I have many things on my conscience and I do not wish to add to this your frozen corpse. "

He stood, what seemed to be surprise and pleasure flitting across his face.

"You needn't think you are making a habit of this," I said darkly as he curled up familiarly on my couch, sipping at the cocoa I had made him.

"I won't," he said softly. He stretched out a hand to move some papers strewn on the coffee table next to him; I leaped up and removed them sharply from his grasp. They were some of Granger's research notes. I frowned, and wondered if he had seen what they were.

If he had, he made no sign. I sat in my armchair across from him, reading. I looked up from time to time. I watched his face begin to relax, and the pinched horror to recede. As his features slackened into sleep, I rose and draped a blanket over him.

I sat back down and fingered the papers I had removed from his reach.

The top page of Granger's notes, at which he had glanced, contained a number of indecipherable comments and runic marks. Well: indecipherable to me, anyway. I supposed they might have made some sort of sense to Granger. Amongst all this was one legible line of writing:

**'Taveon**. _Runic origin of name means_ '**twin'**. _Same root origin as_ **Thomas**.'

Taveon, Tom, twin. I brooded, yet again, on the connection.

I had asked Granger, out of interest, what the runic origin of the name 'Halbert' was. She had considered me for a long moment before answering.

"Bright hero," she had told me, biting her lip and peering inscrutably at me through her lashes.

Bright hero. My lip curled. Bright hero...Wasn't that bloody _typical_, I thought. My eyes went to Potter, snoozing on my couch with his mouth slightly open – and – no, _not _drool…not on my cushions!

I shook my head. I had long thought that if the Fates existed, they had a most peculiar sense of humour. And an especial dislike for one Severus Snape.

Events of the next few days were only to confirm me in this opinion.

* * *

MPS – Thanks! Lol, well I **do** have an idea where I am going with this…honest…by winding ways……

Lychee2 – /me hands you a box of chocolates.

Gorman99 – Thank you…the prophecy thing will deliver a surprise or two yet I hope…

lucidity – Sybill, as ever, does not even know when she has said something worth saying, or what it is! Thanks as ever for review.

Denise ) – TY. There's still a fair bit of this one to go…

Vyxagallanxchi – yes, I thought it was time to inject a bit of positive energy!! Poor Sevy, yes, he had a rotten time at school. /me growls at James and co. And yes, there is always fanfiction thank goodness!! I wonder if you would like Part 1 of a Sirius returning story, In Search of Sirius, under my PG-fic name JinnyJ?

Anoni- yes, I rather liked the concept….brewed properly, might be rather fun!

Sakia Ishida – thanks….

Jaws - Lol, I promise, Snape hurt/Harry comfort does happen at some point!!! – but not for a little while. That was what you asked for earlier, wasn't it?!

crookshanks87 – ty…

ShadowedHand – yes, much as he wishes to Snape can't get that Potter boy out of his head…

Royal Midnight ) - hehehe, I owe that one to my RP group and have no absolutely no idea who said it…so an anonymous acknowledgement there. Hmm, another tarot reader? Snape doesn't know what the cards mean, but Hermione has an idea. I wonder whether your reading follows the one as set down by Madame Miranda (whose book naturally Hermione had already three times before dumping Divination)?

tomfeltatonofme - hehe, yes Harry is jealous…

TammySlark – ah, what a beautiful thought.

Oya – what the cards mean…well Hermione guesses..Snape's ignoring them all except the last one…

Beth5572 – thanks!

ahappyjtm – yummy, popcorn with caramel. How delicious.

athenakitty – well he's better at Occlumency than he was…and it's Snape he wants to talk to….

Read300300 – shows he's desperate, don't you think?!

cadpig – thanks! Glad you're enjoying it…Harry is indeed having an angsty patch…poor petal…maybe Snape will help him get over it…?? I'm glad Severus comes over as sexy!!

mysticalpanther – well, Hermione will find out some interesting facts, and….

Silverthreads - /me hands over a box of chocolates. Yes, it does, but Snape is so dismissive of Divination he doesn't pay much attention. Hermione has noticed though.

rosiegirl – glad you are still enjoying it!

Wanamaker – thanks!

cdkobasiuk – hehe, I've never written Sybill before, she is quite fun..

NitaPotter – thanks a lot. I have gone for the 'slow build' so I'm pleased people are liking that because a lot of the chapters it seems as if nothing much has actually happened!!!

BeldaranCara - /me sweeps a bow and blushes. Thank you.

Alynna Lis Eachann – lol, I think the odds are that Harry will find out, he always does seem to, doesn't he?


	23. A Bad Day Gets Worse

"Potter." 

Harry mumbled faintly. He was enjoying a beautiful long sleep. He did not want to wake up.

"_Potter_!"

Reluctantly, Harry opened an eye. He blinked in surprise. Without his glasses, the world was rather blurry, but he was quite capable of realizing this was not Gryffindor tower.

Snape's voice. Snape's chambers.

Harry hauled himself upright on the couch and peered fuzzily around.

"Where – "

"Here," Snape drawled. Harry felt the wire frames of his glasses pushed into his hands. He put them on, and tried to focus his bleary eyes.

"How – " He recalled Snape coming upon him as he sat on the dungeon steps, and drinking cocoa. That was his last memory of the previous evening.

"You fell asleep. Now, however, it is time for you to return to Gryffindor tower. Hopefully, before any of your dormitory companions awake and realize you have been gone."

"Oh." Harry blushed slightly. It had suddenly occurred to him what sort of construction might be put upon him apparently sneaking off to spend the night in Snape's chambers.

"Quite, Mr Potter. It really is in both of our best interests if you depart, don't you think? Now?"

Harry shook his head slightly to try and clear the sleep away, and staggered to his feet. Snape watched him patiently. He was already dressed. Or perhaps, Harry thought, he had never been to bed; perhaps he had spent the night in the armchair opposite, watching over him as he slept…

Harry padded to the door. He still felt half-asleep. Snape was watching his progress with a sardonic eye.

"Thanks, Professor," he did manage to say before setting off. "I – er, yeah well. Thanks."

Fortunately, he met no-one on his return to his dormitory. The Fat Lady eyed him disapprovingly when he gave the password, but made no comment. She let him in, and he scooted up the stairs towards his dorm.

Everybody still seemed to be sleeping, thankfully. Harry was just pulling his own quilt over himself when he heard Ron's whisper.

"Harry!"

"What?" Harry muttered back, casting quick glances around. Ron had raised himself to an elbow and was glaring at him.

"Where've you been?"

"Just downstairs," Harry mumbled. "Couldn't sleep."

"No you weren't!" Ron hissed at him. He sounded angry. "I woke up, and you weren't there, so I got worried. I went looking for you…"

"You didn't go tell anyone I was missing, did you?" Harry said in sudden alarm.

"No. I just figured you'd gone on one of your midnight rambles. But I wasn't expecting you to be out all night! Where've you been?"

"Just…about." Harry lay back on his pillow and closed his eyes, hoping this would give Ron a hint.

If Ron recognized it as such, he was deliberately ignoring it. He swung his long, skinny ankles over the side of his bed and came to sit next to Harry, so he could hiss in his ear.

"You've been with Snape, haven't you?"

Harry sighed. This was not the sort of thing he could easily explain to Ron. "Well. All right. Yes. He found me when I was walking around, that's all, and made me some cocoa….then I fell asleep…"

"Snape – made – you - _cocoa_?" Ron's whisper was incredulous. He paused. Harry kept his eyes closed, but he was sure Ron was shaking his head. "Are _you_ having it off with Snape?"

Harry jerked upright. "No I am not!" he said angrily, forgetting to whisper.

Around the dormitory, bodies moved and stirred.

"What's going on?" Dean's voice demanded sleepily. "S'not time to get up yet, is it?"

"Nothing," Harry said shortly, in a low voice. "Go back to sleep."

"Will if you two'll shut up," Seamus said blearily. "You woke me up…"

"Sorry."

Harry lay back down, and closed his eyes firmly again. He felt weight shift from his mattress. Good. Ron had gone back to his own bed. He was sure he had not heard the end of this, though.

Fortunately, Ron seemed to realize that this was not a conversation for the public domain. So he did not try to pursue it over breakfast. He did, however, keep shooting scowling glances at both Hermione and Harry as he shovelled cornflakes into his mouth at speed.

Harry quite understood why Ron should be annoyed with Hermione. He, too, wanted to know why she was spending so much time with Snape. So, Harry frowned thoughtfully at Hermione, Ron frowned at Harry and Hermione, and Hermione calmly ignored the pair of them and ate her breakfast at a decorous pace.

Harry blinked as a memory drifted back. Last night, when he was drinking cocoa in Snape's chambers… He had moved some papers in order to set his cup down, and had vaguely registered that they had been written in Hermione's neat script. As he knew Hermione was doing some research for Snape, he had not thought much of it. The top page had just been full of undecipherable squiggles anyway, and no help at all in satisfying his curiosity.

One word had caught his eye, though, he recalled. _Taveon_. It had meant nothing to him. He filed it away carefully. Maybe it was a clue to what Hermione was up to with Snape…He resolved to do some research of his own on this at the earliest opportunity.

But now, he had a day full of NEWT classes to look forward to. And first session happened to be double Potions.

Gryffindor were still paired with the Slytherins. It wasn't so bad as it had been. Crabbe and Goyle had not done well enough in their OWLs to carry on to NEWTs. Harry had heard from Mr Weasley that they had been sent to Durmstrang to retake most of their exams.

Malfoy was still here at Hogwarts, however. Harry scowled; he could see his blonde head strutting in front of him on their way to the Potions class. To his surprise, the relationship between Malfoy and Snape had continued unchanged even after Snape was exposed as a spy.

Hermione had said wisely that Malfoy was probably keeping his options open. Maybe he was hoping that the Second War would be over by the time he left school, and he could join the winning side.

Or maybe, Ron had said darkly, he was behaving himself on Voldemort's instructions: so the Dark Lord had a tool at Hogwarts ready to hand at the time he wanted one.

This was one occasion when Harry thought Ron was right, not Hermione. His brow creased in sudden anxiety. He knew Voldemort was desperate to get his hands on Snape. What if the time to make use of such a tool was now?

He would keep a close eye on Malfoy, he determined.

"Mr Potter," Snape's voice sighed. "I am pleased you have graced us with your physical presence. Perhaps your mind, such as it is, would care to join us as well?"

"Sorry," Harry muttered, realizing his attention had wandered so far he had not registered class starting. He waited for his first points of the year to be docked from Gryffindor, but Snape was continuing smoothly on with the lesson.

He peered at the board as Snape's handwriting magically appeared on it. Oh, all right, he thought… I know how to do this one… It was a potion he had assisted Snape to make over the summer. With unaccustomed confidence, he collected his ingredients and set to work.

* * *

Potter's potion-making had actually improved, I noted. I would never have thought it possible. The additional practice over the summer had clearly done him good. 

The class were all intent upon their preparations. This was a NEWT class; the real incompetents like Longbottom had all been weeded out. It was safe for me to occupy myself with marking some of the work turned in by lower school years.

I was energetically scoring out some worthless reflections upon the properties of Billywig stingers when the explosion happened.

Exclaiming, I leaped up.

Potter.

I might have known.

His cauldron was on fire and bubbling over. He, and several of his Gryffindor friends who had been sitting near him, were scalded by the burning purple liquid.

Potter himself was standing poised for action on the balls of his feet, his wand pointed directly at Malfoy's grinning face.

Malfoy, likewise, had his wand out and aimed at Potter. Both were muttering hexes under their breath.

"_Put your wands away!"_ I commanded fiercely.

Too late. Potter's Jelly Legs hex had hit Malfoy full on. Malfoy's Blaster curse had been aimed accurately enough, but whizzed over Potter's shoulder as he swayed agilely to one side. It made a small, smoking hole in my dungeon wall.

Really. Damage to my classroom was going too far. And how _dared_ they duel! In _my_ class!

"_Expelliarmus_!"

Both of their wands flew into my hands. I regarded them grimly.

"_Finite_ _Incantatem_!" I added, noticing that Malfoy was still wobbling all over the place.

I paused, glaring at them. My desire to inflict maximum retribution on Gryffindor was thwarted by an unwelcome recollection of Potter's face taut with misery as he took refuge in my dungeons in the middle of the night. And Malfoy... I had my own reasons for not wishing to alienate Mr Malfoy.

Things were certainly getting out of hand when I hesitated to throw a Gryffindor into the deepest despair I could contrive. Still: I had the fifth years next. A little suffering would doubtless be good for their noble souls.

"Now," I snarled. Malfoy and Potter both still eyed each other like fighting dogs. Neither looked remotely repentant. "That was a thoroughly _disgraceful_ display which I would not have expected from a first year class, let alone students taking final year NEWTs. Twenty points from each of you, and both of you get out of my sight. You may return after dinner this evening, when you will find you have cleaning duties to perform. _Without_ magic. Now GO."

"But, sir – " Malfoy began. I still held their wands.

"GO."

* * *

In consequence, Harry spent a miserable day explaining to teachers why he had no wand for his classes. He earned two more detentions in this way. His loathing for Malfoy could hardly get any worse than it already was, but a bitter resentment was added to it. 

"So Malfoy's got you in trouble already!" Ron exclaimed as they met in the corridors on the way to dinner. They were both slightly late; nobody else was about.

"Yeah." Harry arranged his school-bag on his shoulder and continued to stride along with some violence. "It was all his fault, as well. He threw something into my cauldron.."

"Typical Malfoy," Ron commented. "Little toerag. Can't wait till he joins his dear old dad in Azkaban."

Harry wholeheartedly agreed.

"So, Snape back to his normal charming self then? Twenty points off Gryffindor, wasn't it?" Ron added, looking sidelong at Harry.

"And Slytherin," Harry pointed out, striding even faster.

"Yeah, but even so..Twenty points…Greasy old git…."

"Give it a rest, Ron!" Harry exploded, coming to a sharp halt and whirling round on his red-headed friend. "You've always got it in for Snape…We were duelling in class, 'course he was going to punish us…"

"Well, _you've_ gone right weird recently, mate, I can tell you that!" Ron snapped back at him.

The portraits on the walls started nudging each other and giggling at their altercation. Harry looked up at them in irritation, and started off on the way to the Great Hall again.

"Yeah?" he said. "Well, maybe I am. Everyone's been thinking I'm weird for years, seeing things and what have you, so you can just join the rest of them… Potty Potter, right?"

"You know that's not what I meant!" Ron half-yelled in indignation. "It's just the way you're always hanging around Snape these days, it's like you fancy him or something…"

"Ron, have you got some sort of a fixation?" Harry snarled back. "I mean, it is actually possible to talk to people without having to fancy them, you know! You like to go and talk to Hagrid in his hut, does that mean you fancy him, then?"

"Me? Fancy Hagrid? I don't! I bloody _don't_!"

They sat as far apart from each other as they could at dinner. Harry stabbed viciously at the food on his plate. Ginny made one or two efforts to engage him in conversation but gave him up as a bad job when he just glowered at her unresponsively.

"Sorry," he muttered to her. "It isn't your fault. I'm just in a bad mood."

And after dinner, to make his day even better, he had detention to look forward to. He thought of all the homework he still had to do, and groaned.

It was close to curfew by the time Harry slouched back to the Gryffindor common room. He was now in a truly foul mood. He supposed scrubbing cauldrons with Malfoy for company would do that to a person. Also, after several hours of angry reflection upon it, his row with Ron was bothering him. He didn't want to fall out with Ron, even if he was a…. Harry shut down that train of thought. He did not think it would be conducive to a conciliatory frame of mind, and he had resolved to try to make it up with Ron.

Ron was deep in conversation with Seamus and Dean when Harry came in. He glanced up at Harry but did not acknowledge him. Harry set his chin and made his way over to them. Hermione was working at a desk on her own, quite close by to them, her tongue sticking slightly out of her mouth in concentration as she wrote some essay or other.

As Harry approached, Ron, Seamus and Dean all burst into laughter. Then he heard Ron's voice, high with merriment.

" – yeah, it's just like I said, the prat's got no balls – "

The table erupted into laughter once more.

What?

Harry felt his stomach lurch. How could Ron...How _could_ he! Anger burned in his gullet.

"_Don't say that!_" he snarled, striding right over to Ron and towering over him. His fists were knotting and unknotting of their own accord.

Ron stared back up at him, his eyes wide and startled. His freckles stood out very clearly in his shocked face, and his mouth had fallen slightly open. Dean and Seamus looked from Harry to Ron in puzzlement.

"It's not Snape's fault," Harry went on. He was far too incensed to think straight. He was almost shaking with rage. "How would you like it if Voldedmort chopped off one your testicles while you – "

His mouth suddenly seized up as though somebody had paralysed his vocal cords. Whirling, he was just in time to see Hermione's wand, out of everybody's line of sight, completing the final flourishes of a silencing spell. He tried to shout at her, then felt ridiculous when his mouth simply flapped open and closed uselessly. He just stood there, fuming.

"What?" Dean said incredulously. "You're kidding? Snape – "

"Yes, of course he's kidding," Hermione said briskly, a slightly high edge to her voice. She elbowed Harry out of the way. "Funny joke, Harry, ha ha."

Dean and Seamus were not convinced. Obviously something was going on here. They were still looking from Harry's livid face to Ron's shocked one.

"I don't reckon he was kidding," Seamus blurted. He looked excited. "Harry, what – "

"Don't be stupid," Hermione interrupted again, eyes flashing. "And if I were you I wouldn't go around repeating such a stupid story either. Snape would string the lot of you from the Astronomy Tower if he knew you'd been saying that sort of thing....Harry, come here for a minute, will you. I need to ask you something. Urgently."

She had Harry's arm in a grip so hard it hurt as she dragged him to the furthest corner of the common room and pushed him into a chair.

He glared at her, pointing to his mouth, and making angry gestures with his hands.

"If you promise not to shout at me the moment I take the spell off," Hermione said firmly. She was standing over him, hands on hips.

Reluctantly, Harry nodded.

He didn't shout. That much was true. But the torrent of abuse against Ron which came out of his mouth as soon as he could speak only served to make Hermione fold her arms and roll her eyes upwards towards the ceiling.

"You finished now?" she said grimly, when Harry finally paused.

"No," he hissed. "When I get him on his own I'm going to – "

"Harry." Hermione sat sideways on the arm of the chair next to him. "Harry, shut up for a minute and listen to me."

Harry glowered at her. He wasn't interested in her excuses. Ron, as far he was concerned, had just done something unforgivable. He knew Ron didn't like Snape, and didn't approve of the fact that Harry seemed to be spending time with him. But none of that could justify what Ron had done, betraying a secret told to him in strictest confidence – and such a damaging, hurtful secret at that –

"Harry," Hermione said again. She seemed reluctant to speak now Harry had relapsed into seething silence, and she had the opportunity. She took a deep breath. She wore an expression of mingled apprehension and pity.

"Harry. They weren't talking about..about Snape.."

Harry glowered at her skeptically. Trust Hermione to try and cover for Ron!

"Harry..They were – they were talking about..... Quidditch........."

The words hung in the air for a long moment.

Harry's eyes, arrested, locked with hers.

"What?" he said faintly.

"Quidditch," Hermione repeated. "They'd been arguing about whose fault it was the Appleby Arrows lost the match the other week. Ron said it was the fault of their Seeker for being too frightened to go after the Snitch. The exact phrase he used was….was….that their Seeker 'hadn't got any balls'."

"But they were laughing.." Harry whispered dully. His heart was thudding painfully in his chest.

"Their Seeker's a girl, Harry," Hermione pointed out. "Personally I don't find that a very funny joke, but they all seemed to think it hilarious…."

Harry closed his eyes and dropped his head in his hands.

"Quidditch," he repeated. A note of hysteria crept into his voice. "Quidditch! I'll, I'll go tell them I was just making it up, that it wasn't true – "

"Leave it, Harry," Hermione advised him, with a sigh. "You'll make it worse. If you bring it up again, you'll only make more of a thing of it in their heads. With any luck they'll forget all about it, or think you were just being stupid…"

"Yeah," Harry said bleakly. "That would be right."

Very, very stupid, he thought. Oh shit…what if it got back to Snape that half Gryffindor Common room knew his secret….?

Harry groaned. Despair at his own idiocy engulfed him.

He had a very bad feeling about this.

How, how, could he have been so _stupid_!

* * *

_Thanks to reviewers – no time for comments this time, got to go and get my stuff ready for work tomorrow. Bah. Are there any millionaires out there who want to pay someone to write them Harry Potter fanfic stories on demand until the next book comes out?? Because if so, I volunteer…_

_But to specific questions – yep, Oya, it means Snape is missing something! And Mystical Panther, I wrote the poems. ..and BeldaranCara, no, no, not boring at all!!!!_


	24. A Cloud of Unknowing

"Obliviate them!" Harry said fiercely, fixing Hermione with a frantic stare.

"What?" Hermione blinked at him.

"Obliviate them!" Harry demanded again. He reached out a hand to grab her arm. "Hermione! I know you can! You've been doing extra charms classes!"

Hermione sighed and ran a hand through her bushy hair. She glanced quickly around to make sure no-one could overhear them. "Harry – "

"Hermione, _please_...."

"I can't, Harry. You must see I can't. Firstly, it's illegal just to randomly use Memory Charms…yes, all right, all right, I know _you_ don't care, but I would quite like to finish my school year, thank you very much." Hermione paused, and went on. "Secondly, they're already talking about something else now. I only know how to obliviate safely memories which are only just immediately past….."

"I'll have a go at it then," Harry said stubbornly. "Lockhart managed it, how hard it can it be? I'll have them forget the last half hour or so. Surely, if I make it strong enough.."

"..then they'll all very likely end up in St Mungo's," Hermione finished for him, giving him a stern look. "You're not trained in obliviation. I know you're not very happy with them right now, but do you really want them to end up on a closed ward like Lockhart?"

Harry looked as if he could have coped quite well with such a fate befalling Ron, Dean and Seamus.

"But we've got to do _something_," Harry continued to insist, angrily. "There has to be _something_ we can do…"

"Well," Hermione said slowly. "I do have one idea… it's a bit more subtle than a Memory Charm…we'll need your invisibility cloak. Oh, and the penknife Lupin gave you, as well…."

She leaned in closer and murmured to Harry what she had in mind. His brow furrowed.

A Cloud of Unknowing?

He had never heard of such a thing.

* * *

I was feeling remarkably cheerful. It was Saturday tomorrow, and I was off-duty. No children, I thought with deep satisfaction. No teaching; no dispiriting attempts to raise the idiocy level of the next generation from the imbecilic to the averagely moronic. I would have the whole day to spend on my Potions research. That meant I could start the next phase of my experiments now. 

I sniffed at the shimmering liquid in the cauldron. It just needed a few last little touches, I thought…Silverwings…Purple Elysium…

It had, of course, occurred to me that testing the potion might be rather awkward. I would only know it had failed to achieve the desired effect if the Dark Lord managed to enspell me. And once I was in Voldemort's hands, progressing the potion beyond the beta testing stage would perhaps be a tad difficult. '_Whoops, I see I need to do a little bit more work on this... I'll just be getting along then_' was unlikely to see Voldemort waving me happily on my way.

However, as far as I could tell from laboratory investigation the potion was developing nicely, and should protect the whole body from external magical invasion. Thus, it ought to block Voldemort from getting at me through the Dark Mark. That would only leave me with homocidal Death Eaters, hit men, and wizard assassins to worry about. And _then_, I could leave this damned Castle.

I wondered whether the potion would work on Potter's curse scar? His Occlumency had come along enormously, but he might still be able use some extra help with repelling the Dark Lord at times.

In fact, I thought, I must speak to Dumbledore. I didn't trust Potter to keep up the Occlumency exercises as rigorously as he should now classes, detentions and Quidditch were underway. I rather thought we should return to having an evening or two a week scheduled for further practice and training.

Purely for his own good, and because it would please Dumbledore: naturally. It wasn't as though I did not have better and more entertaining things to do with my time.

* * *

Harry kept a close eye on his dormitory mates until they finally decided to go to bed. As far as he could tell, Ron, Seamus and Dean had not spoken with anyone except each other since he had blurted out his unfortunate revelations. He shuddered in recollection. Maybe he should ask Hermione to cast that silencing spell on him on a permanent basis, he thought ruefully. 

After a while, he reluctantly went up to the dorm himself. He supposed he ought to at least try and get some rest before venturing out again once the Castle was quiet for the night.

He stopped short for a moment in the doorway, and groaned to himself. Neville was already snoring. But Dean, Seamus and Ron were not asleep, nor even laying quietly in their beds. They were still arguing about Quidditch.

Until they saw Harry, that is.

"Hey, Harry!" Seamus said, his small eyes every bright. "What you said earlier… is it true?"

"No." Harry said, shortly.

Ron didn't say anything, but pointedly turned his head away. He began to fiddle with the items on his bedside table.

"That's just so funny!" Dean joined in.

_Right_, Harry thought. _Just absolutely hilarious, and I'll laugh ever so loudly when they do it to all of you…_

"Did you know there's a song like that?" Seamus asked. "Me dad taught me it..it's from the Muggle Second World War, maybe we should sing it next Potions class…It goes, _Hitler_ – "

Harry gritted his teeth and tried to block his ears. He grabbed his wash-bag and went to get ready for the night. He thought longingly of his wand: it was there, just there – he could point it at them right now – His mind was already supplying him with a whole range of creative hexes.

Or he could just go for the obliviation option, and wipe those stupid smirks off all of their faces for good...

But he supposed Hermione was right. He did not know how to use the Memory Charm safely. Her way would be better.

That is, he added to himself, if he managed not to kill them, hex them or permanently stupefy them before he and Hermione could get to work.

Grimly, Harry put on his pyjamas and got into bed, pulling the drapes around him.

* * *

The gentle sounds of sleep filled the dormitory. Harry glanced, again, at his bedside clock. It was time to go, at last. 

He stole out of the dormitory, clutching the shimmering folds of his invisibility cloak. His magical penknife was in his pocket. The knife Sirius gave him originally had melted during the terrible battle at the Department of Mysteries. Lupin had given him another, with a rather sad smile; Sirius had given it to him in their younger days. "He would want you to have it," Lupin had said.

The knife unlocked most doors. They would need it tonight. Somehow, though, Harry didn't think Sirius would approve of the use to which Harry was about to put it. He would not think sparing Snape suffering a worthwhile activity. In fact, Harry reflected painfully, Sirius would probably think causing Snape maximum public humiliation to be a desirable end in itself...

Hermione was already waiting for him downstairs. Harry couldn't see her very well, since the only light was shed by the dying embers of the fire, but he could tell she was nervous.

"Hermione," he whispered, gratitude flooding him. "I really do appreciate this…thanks…."

He saw her shoulder shrug, silhouetted against the fire. Her face was in shadow.

"It's all right," she breathed. "I know how much this means to you, and …."

"What?"

"Nothing. Come on…can we both still fit under that cloak, do you think?"

They could. Harry draped it over the pair of them. Hermione shivered slightly at its watery touch.

The Fat Lady peered around sleepily as they drifted through the portrait hole, smoothing her pink silk dress. She closed her eyes again as Harry pushed the door shut, mumbling grumpily under her breath.

It took a while for Harry and Hermione to co-ordinate their steps under the shared cloak. "That was my _toe_," Hermione whispered indignantly to Harry as he tripped over her when she stopped to check the coast was clear.

It was cold and dark in the midnight corridors. Once, they heard footsteps and froze back against the wall. Yellow light spilled onto the stone floor from around the corner.

The skeletal form of Mrs Norris padded into view. She gazed with her lamp-like eyes at the spot where Harry and Hermione stood immobile. Yet again, Harry was conscious of anxiety: he had never been fully convinced that the cat could not see through invisibility cloaks.

Filch was close on her heels with his shuffling gait. He was sniffing the air as though to ferret out miscreants with his nose.

"There be people about, Mrs Norris," he wheezed to the cat. He, too, was staring suspiciously from side to side. "I can tell, I can…We'll find them, my precious, won't we? Oh yes…"

He moved slowly along the corridor and rounded the corner. Harry and Hermione sighed with relief, and resumed their cautious journey. Ever since Umbridge's departure, Filch had grown steadily more bitter about his inability to torture students. He was rumoured to weep with despair when contemplating his shiny, unused manacles. Harry was sure that one day he would just give in to temptation.

He hoped he would have graduated before that moment arrived.

The dungeons were even colder and darker than the rest of the castle. They did not dare to make a light in case Filch or Snape wandered along and noticed it. It had never seemed such a long way to their Potions classroom.

The door was locked and warded, of course. Hermione breathed out spells to stop the alarms going off, while Harry set Sirius' knife to the lock.

The door opened.

They slipped inside.

Once the door was closed, Hermione cast an illumination spell. She sighed in relief as light flooded them.

"Well," she said. "We made it this far…."

Her voice echoed in the empty classroom. The place seemed oddly menacing at night. The only other noise was the gargoyle perpetually emptying cold water into its stone basin. Harry deliberately chose not to look at the pickle bottles. He didn't like them even in the day-time. Now, it would be all too easy to imagine rolling eyeballs staring back at him….

"All right," Harry said with false cheer. "So, what do we need then?"

"Silver cauldron," Hermione instructed him. "A little one will do…"

They opened the cupboard for students' supplies and began to assemble what they required.

"We're going to need some lethe-juice," Hermione said, catching Harry's eye.

"I'm guessing that isn't in student supplies…" Harry replied, with a sinking feeling. Breaking into Snape's Potions classroom was bad enough. Snape guarded his private supplies like a dragon with one egg. And Harry could recall all too clearly just how dangerous _that_ scenario was.

"Well. Lethe-juice does get added right at the end," Hermione said. "I think we should fetch that last, when we need it. I know Professor Snape strengthened the wards on his private cupboard last time somebody broke in; if the alarms sound, we'll have him turning up here before we've even finished…We don't want that."

"No. That would be bad," Harry agreed, feeling this was something of an understatement.

"OK," said Hermione. "The most difficult part will be when we need to identify the information we want suppressing…"

"Erm, Hermione," Harry interrupted. He continued carefully chopping the leaves Hermione had shoved in front of him. "First of all could you explain just what, exactly, we are doing here?"

"I told you," Hermione replied impatiently. "We're making A Cloud of Unknowing." As she spoke, she sliced a fat white root into neat, tiny shavings.

"Yes, I got that. But how does it work?"

"Well, you magically capture the information you want people to forget. Like I said, that's the hard bit. Then you make the potion, and anyone who inhales the fumes for more than an hour or so will simply forget they ever knew it."

"Oh." Harry cursed as he nicked a finger, and muttered a swift healing charm. Luckily he hadn't dripped any blood over his leaves. "And this is better than obliviation how?"

"Because it isn't invasive," Hermione explained. "It doesn't modify the mind. It's a lot subtler. And you can't accidentally damage people's brains."

"Oh." Harry still wasn't entirely sure he got the moral difference, but he supposed he didn't really care. Just as long as it worked.

They worked in silence for about an hour, until finally a green liquid was stewing in the silver cauldron.

"Right," said Hermione. "Now we capture the information…"

* * *

I rubbed at my left forearm, cursing. The Dark Mark was starting to hurt again. Voldemort might not be able to cast spells on me while I remained within the protection of Hogwarts Castle, but this didn't stop the blasted thing on my arm from burning me every time he summoned his Death Eaters to their unpleasant little revels. 

I had always thought it a pity the Dark Lord wanted his followers to have something rather more permanent than membership cards.

I wondered what he was up to. Fleetingly, I thought of Potter. He too was linked to the Dark Lord through that scar on his head. It was possible he was even now suffering nightmares and horrific visions in consequence.

Of course, if he practised Occlumency as diligently as he _should_….

I thought I might take a stroll soon. Just to make sure Potter wasn't curled up in a frozen heap somewhere in my dungeon corridors.

I scowled. Damned boy. I would hate to be someone who really cared about him.

One would never get any sleep with the worry of it all.

How fortunate, I thought, that life had already stripped away from me the capacity for emotional attachments.

* * *

Hermione's wand was pointed directly at Harry's forehead. He found this made him nervous. He could now appreciate at a rather more personal level why Hermione had been hesitant about performing obliviation charms. She was about to do something to his head, and he did not like the feeling: at all. 

"Focus, Harry," she said tersely. "Think really really hard of what you want them to forget…."

Hermione's own eyes were narrow with concentration. "_Capio data_," she muttered. She moved her wand very precisely in a circle around Harry's head, and then made the same motion with it as one uses to wrap spaghetti around a fork. "_Glomera!"_

Before Harry's fascinated gaze, a small glowing sphere appeared and floated in the air. Hermione did not touch it with her hands. She prodded it with her wand, and guided it into the cauldron. It sank into the steaming potion already partially brewed, and dissolved. The green liquid became shot with silver.

"There!" Hermione said with satisfaction.

"I can still remember," said Harry worriedly. "Should I be able to? Did it work?"

"That's fine," Hermione assured him, stirring the potion. "I copied the information from your mind. I didn't remove it. Hm… we need that lethe-juice now…"

Harry and Hermione looked at each other.

"All right then," Harry said staunchly. "Let's go…"

He rubbed absently at his forehead as he moved. The spell Hermione had cast on him seemed to have weakened the shields around his mind. His scar was hurting again, with a dull throb.

* * *

My potion needed to steep overnight now. Tomorrow it would be ready for the next stage. It was a good thing I had to stop, really. The Dark Mark was distracting: its burning did not mix well with the delicate art of potions-making. 

I decided I would go for that walk.

Despite the annoying pain in my arm, I was still feeling in an unusually good mood. I strolled along the corridors thinking fondly of my potion bubbling away. It should be ready in a week or so. The Ministry would probably be able to find a use for it as well. I would make them _beg_ for it….

I fingered the dictapin fastened to my robes as I prowled the chill, dark corriors. It was turning out really very useful. A small smile twitched at the corner of my mouth. I hastily suppressed it. I wasn't in _that_ good a mood.

When my wards were breached, I was at the far end of the dungeon. I whirled in annoyance.

My private store!

Someone was breaking into my private store!

I growled deep in my throat, turned on my heel and lengthened my stride.

Whoever it was, they were going to pay for this, I vowed. Few things in my life were sacrosanct. My private Potions store was one of them. I _hated_ the thought of intruders pawing around my delicate ingredients, upsetting the carefully balanced light and humidity levels….

There was light from under the door of my Potions classroom, I noticed with indignation. I burst it open with a wave of my hand, and strode forward to tower vengefully in the doorway.

Potter, stirring a cauldron.

Potter and Granger.

I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath. Severus, I admonished myself, why are you so surprised? Who _else_ would it be, sneaking about, breaking my wards, and brewing potions with my private ingredients in the middle of the night?

Potter and Granger. Naturally. I was only surprised the Weasley boy wasn't with them.

"_Just what_," I hissed at them, "do you think you are _doing_?"

They stared at me with identical expressions of horror. Granger cleared her throat, tried to speak, and failed.

I tapped my foot, and raised an eyebrow.

Whatever pathetic explanation they were about to bleat out had better be _good_.

* * *

_A/N Reference to Second World War song about Hitler…see the Colonel Bogey March!!_

XiaoGui -Aww, thanks. So pleased you like the story…and 'my' Harry!! /me waves to Austria. From England, by the way.

Vyxagallanxchi - I'm sure Harry could do with you as a sort of guardian angel figure, lol, to pop along from time to time and stop him from making his worst mistakes..even if you do want to punch him sometimes!!! I'm sure Snape would be touched by how many people have been feeling all protective of him…and maybe, just maybe, the think-before-acting bit will sink in for Harry…!? Work. Hm. But thanks for good wishes J

Tevkins - Thanks very much!

ok - Erm, I'm afraid there will be lots more unrealistic angst to follow.

Jaws - Thanks!! Glad you liked the last couple of chapters so much.

Molly Morrison - Hello. What a pity you are not a millionaire then! For both of us!Well, Lockhart just didn't have Hermione's scruples…Glad you're enjoying the story. Initially, it was going to have some mild slash themes, but the dynamic wasn't working like that so I posted a note to that effect.

Padawan Jan-AQ - Yep. Big blunder. Huge.

tomfeltatonofme - I can never seem to write Ron as anything _other_ than slightly prattish…..

Read300300 - /me hands you an inhaler with concern. Glad you liked it though!!

we3 - I'm just evil like that…..

charl1e - lol, Harry was kind of keen that the rumour wasn't allowed to spread as well..

Oya - They certainly would given half the chance….

Lady Bard ) - Thanks!! Aww, poor Harry.

Adenara Yatman – TY!

Jen - lol, well, here's Hermione to the rescue…..!

Child-of-Darkness1988 – TY!

lucidity – hehehe, I expect that thought would cross Snape's mind, if he finds out….And he does have all those sharp potions knives…ouch…

Silverthreads – yep. Serious mistake, Harry mate.

MYSTICAL PANTHER – TY. And Potter's still in trouble, from the looks of it…


	25. Caught

_A/N Just a warning....there is perhaps just an eensy bit of angst in this one for the Snape-lover..._

* * *

I loomed in the doorway of my Potions classroom in gathering wrath. How dared they… 

"Um," said Potter.

"Er," said Granger.

Ah, the eloquence of the Hogwarts final year student. I folded my arms. I still stood in the doorway, injecting fury into the glare with which I seared them. They looked panic-stricken. Potter's hair, never neat, was practically standing on end. I supposed he had dragged himself out of bed to take part in this little stunt of his. Even in my anger, I was conscious of a ridiculous urge to go try and straighten it.

I have particularly acute hearing. I caught quite well the muttered exchange between the two of them once their central nervous systems had recovered from the shock of my presence.

"Can't you obliviate _him_!" Potter hissed to Granger. I supposed this idiotic thought could only be in jest.

"Don't be stupid," Granger breathed back. "The man's a walking jinx-repellent. I've never seen anyone wear so many counter-charms…"

My brows lowered. All very entertaining. However –

"You," I stated darkly, impaling them with my gaze, "have been stealing from my _private stores_."

"Um, yes. Really, we are very sorry," Potter managed to stammer. "But, it was sort of important…"

"Oh?" I demanded silkily. I took a step towards them. I towered above them. "So, do enlighten me. Just – what - is so important that you would risk explusion for it?"

"_Expulsion_?" I heard Granger squeak into Potter's ear.

I smirked. Abject fear. Just the thing.

"Ah? You seem to be having some trouble recalling. How unfortunate. Well. Let me see for myself," I said softly, advancing into the room and peering into the cauldron.

I examined the green and silver liquid, and looked up sharply. What in Merlin's name - ?

"This is A Cloud of Unknowing!" I barked at them. "I can think of no good reason why you should be making such a thing. It is a restricted potion, as I am sure you, at least, Miss Granger, are well aware of."

They said nothing.

I thinned my lips. "You still seem to have remarkably little to say for yourselves. First of all, I will Vanish this concoction. And _then_, we shall begin to discuss your punishment."

I began to wave my wand. "_Evan_-"

"NO!!" Potter jumped in front of the cauldron and inserted himself between the potion and my wand.

I was fairly confident that Vanishing students was a sackable offence. I lowered my wand. "Get - out – of –t he – way, Potter," I instructed through gritted teeth.

"Er. No. Sir," he replied, meeting my eyes. He looked nervous but determined.

I rolled my eyes. This, of course, was the inevitable outcome of allowing students to dribble on one's couch. They began to think they could take liberties.

"Potter!" I repeated. "I told you to _move_!"

"No," he said again. "Please, Professor…it's really important…"

"Yes, well, you have yet to explain to me just why that is so, have you not?" I pointed out grimly, tapping my wand on my arm. It was most unlikely the Headmaster would actually allow me to have them expelled. I contemplated instead several truly unpleasant punishments, which started with mincing tubfuls of horned slugs and progressed to scrubbing the floor of the potions classroom. With a toothbrush.

"Well, it's all my fault, really," Potter said in a rush. "I, er, told my dorm mates something I shouldn't have. It was about someone else. It was an accident. And.. I need them to forget I ever told them. …."

Oh, really? All Potter's fault. He had acted without thinking. Goodness me.

"And is this nauseating story supposed to impress me?" I demanded.

"Well, you see, I really don't want this other person to be hurt by what I said," Potter went on, watching me as he spoke.

"And am I supposed to care about this?" I sneered.

There was silence.

"That is one of the lamest excuses for illicit activity I have ever heard," I told them in menacing accents. "And whatever makes you think raiding _my private store_ is justifiable in order to correct your social errors?"

"I'm sorry about that," Potter said. He was very earnest. "Erm, Professor, you can punish me all you want…"

I raised my eyebrow. I did not need his permission.

"…but," he went on, "please, the potion's finished, let us use it…"

I bored my eyes into his. Hm - "Potter!" I snapped suddenly. "Your mental shields are down!"

"Um, yes," he said, a little guiltily. "I know..I think it was the spell.."

_Capio Data_. Yes. Very likely. However, as my arm was burning now really rather persistently, this was definitely not a good time for Potter to decide to lower his defences.

"You need to protect your mind, Potter!" I growled at him fiercely.

I clicked my tongue. I was getting distracted. I eyed Granger and Potter narrowly. The damned boy would look so _anguished_. Potter's misery never used to bother me in the least. The more, the better, in fact. Perhaps it was since the final showdown with the Dark Lord had started to haunt the fringes of my dreams….his face, green eyes glazed with death, staring endlessly up at the indifferent skies.

I hissed through my teeth. I was...well, not weakening; Severus Snape was a stranger to such signs of softness. But perhaps I would give them one last opportunity to explain themselves.

I could not simply let them use the potion, of course. Modifying memories was a dangerous art. At least they appeared to have had the sense not to attempt obliviation as the answer to their indiscretions. Of course, given the basically mindless nature of the average Gryffindor, one could argue that actually it would have made no difference, but…Still. Were I to even consider allowing them to use this potion, I would need to know what it was for, and whether it could be harmful.

"I must insist," I went on implacably, "on knowing just what you are trying to have your unfortunate room mates forget."

Silence. Again.

"_Well_?"

I was becoming very impatient of this charade.

* * *

"It was to do with an Order member," Harry said quickly. Would that be enough? he thought desperately. Surely, Snape would be as anxious as they to protect secrets surrounding the Order…. 

Snape's eyes were drilling into his again. _Truth_, Harry thought. It _was _to do with an Order member.

"If that is so," Snape said, his voice even more dangerously soft, "you have been even more insanely stupid than I believed to be possible. Just how indiscreet have you been, Potter?"

"I…"

Harry's mind had run aground. He could not think of a single thing to say. If he lied, Snape would know. If he told the truth….Harry cringed away from the very thought. His mind stuck endlessly on the scene in the Gryffindor dormitory, with Ron, Seamus and Dean laughing and mocking; if Snape ever knew about that….

* * *

I let out a sharp exclamation. This was ridiculous. We would be here all night. My arm was hurting. It was very late. 

I took another step forward and stared grimly into Potter's eyes. He tried to duck away, but too late.

Images whirled in his head. He was a mass of emotion: panic, horror, guilt; I couldn't disentangle it. His mind was fixated clearly enough, however, on a particular scene in one of the Gryffindor dormitories -

I swallowed, and my breathing thinned.

No –

Laughing. Gryffindors. Laughing. At me. And - my....affliction.

_Singing! _The Finnigan boy leading the chant…."_Maybe we should sing it next Potions class…"_

Oh, no, no….

The refusal of my mind made no difference. The song still rang out, over and over, in Potter's memory, perpetually replayed. _"Maybe we should sing it next Potions class_."

I had seen enough. I released him, violently, from the spell. He staggered backwards.

"Professor," he stammered wildly. "It was an accident…please believe me…that's why we're here, we wanted to put it right…"

I did not heed him. It was cold; I was shivering. _"Who wants to see me taking off Snivelly's pants?"_ an all-too-familiar voice mocked in my head, as it had mocked me constantly through the intervening decades.

"So," I said to Harry Potter, oh so very softly. "That is your idea of an entertaining evening, is it? How very fascinating, Mr Potter. And then you became worried you would get into trouble, so here you are, stealing _my_ ingredients and breaking into _my_ laboratory…."

Fury squeezed the breath out of my lungs. I could not continue. It was so very cold in the dungeons. My stomach clenched.

I could not continue. I turned on my heel. I shook my hair forward so that it obscured my face.

I walked away.

* * *

No! Harry thought desperately 

"Professor!" he shouted after Snape's retreating form. Snape's gait was jerky, as if he were physically wounded but too proud to seek assistance. "Wait – please….!"

Hermione grabbed his arm. Her voice was very shaky when she spoke. "Harry, I don't think he's in a mood to listen to you…did he read your mind? What did he see?"

"Oh, just the worst bit," Harry said bitterly. "That bunch of cretins making fun of him in the dorm…He thinks I did it on purpose…He thinks I told them for a laugh…"

"You can explain tomorrow…It'll be all right…." Hermione said. She didn't sound terribly convinced. "It'll be all right, Harry, it'll be OK…look, at least we've got the potion. No-one else need know. That's got to count for something."

That was better than it could have been, Harry supposed. At least Snape wouldn't have the humiliation of the entire school knowing, and singing stupid songs…But he had seen it in Harry's memories, Harry standing by while his dorm-mates made fun of him…Snape didn't understand that Harry had wanted to make the potion to _protect_ him, not just to save his own skin from Snape's justifiable wrath…

"Harry!" Hermione said, urgently. "Here. Quickly. We've got to go back…"

As swiftly as possible, they cleared away their mess. Harry levitated the cauldron and, in moments, he, Hermione and the potion were hidden by the invisibility cloak. They still had Filch to worry about, although at the moment Harry felt hanging upside from the caretaker's manacles would be no worse than he deserved.

The journey back seemed to take forever. Harry was troubled by his scar, which kept searing with bursts of pain. Snape had been right. He needed to repair his defences.

Snape…

The Fat Lady barely opened her eyes when they gave the password to re-enter the Gryffindor common room. Harry and Hermione ripped the invisibility cloak off and stared at each other, still stricken.

"OK," Harry sighed finally "What do I do with this potion now?"

"_Vivesce_," Hermione murmured, passing her wand across the surface of the cauldron. "There. It's active. Just leave it in your dormitory overnight. But, er, Harry – you'd better sleep down here if you don't want your own memories modifying…"

"Oh. Yeah."

Although, Harry thought miserably, a nice bit of obliviation would be just the ticket right about now.

Harry took the cauldron carefully upstairs and hid it under his bed. Hermione had assured him the magical fumes would circulate from there quite efficiently. Ron muttered in his sleep and turned over as Harry crept through the dorm, but he did not waken. Harry slipped as silently as he could out of the room, and downstairs to the common room. He chose a sofa, and curled up on it.

_Damn it_, he thought wretchedly. Damn it…how would he ever get Snape to forgive him?

Somehow he didn't think forgiveness featured prominently in the psychological landscape of Severus Snape.

* * *

I strode through the dungeon corridors, cursing myself. How had I ever thought... 

Potter had told the Gryffindors. Doubtless he thought it would impress them. So what that he had later regretted his actions? – most likely when he realized that, inevitably, the blame for such an ugly rumour would be pinpointed to him? Couldn't have the Golden Boy sullied by an underhand and malicious act like that, now could we? Not Potter, the heroic, the noble.

_Severus_, I tried to calm myself. _He said it was an accident_…

Right.

_And they did make the potion, nobody will know_...

But somehow, strangely, that didn't seem to be the point. Potter had told them. They had all had a great time making fun of me. _Just like his father_. And yet, had I really thought, even for a moment, that Potter might actually have begun to see as more than Snape the bastard, the greasy old git? Had I come to imagine he actually enjoyed my company; had even begun to rely on me for emotional support?

_Fool_. I mocked myself for my stupidity. He had, of course, just been using me for what he could get. Potter had needed something. The world would - naturally - provide. I had stepped forward and played my required role. And now -

_Fool_. My breath stabbed in my lungs. I had begun to trust him. I had thought he was not, after all, like his father…whom that even greater fool, Albus Dumbledore, had been trying to persuade me to forgive for years.....

I snarled. And that thrice-cursed Mark on my arm _would_ keep on burning!

I let the cold of my dungeon wrap itself around me. Colder, colder, leeching away thought, sucking out feeling... Breathe, I instructed myself: seek the stillness. Clear the mind.

Focus on the stones: a familiar litany.

Obsidian. Black and shiny; nothing adheres to obsidian. Pain slides smoothly off its slippery surfaces. It cannot grasp on to it.

Crystal. Spikes of glass: bitterness impaled, congealed: frozen. Yes. Frozen.

Granite. Hard, bleak, weathered. Ponderous and heavy.

Granite.

Granite endures.

I concentrate on granite.

* * *

Tevkins – ooh yes, and then everything gets even worse....... 

juliedecarson – mm, yes, your poor heart…thanks for kind review, and hope the angst levels aren't too high!!!

Amethyst Rain - thanks loads, what a nice review…and YUMMY hot cocoa and waffles…can I still keep it..I'll be nice to Snape soon, honest

Lilith11 – thanks for your many reviews all arriving at once..! And I do update usually at least once a week…sometimes more….

Jaws - lol, and here's me doing some Snapey angst for you as well….

Padawan Jan-AQ – well, they finished the potion! but, then.....

tomfeltatonofme - poor Snapey..not even furious, really…just hurt….awwwwww

MYSTICAL PANTHER – no, not good….evil smirk.

Persephone Lupin – wow, thanks lots! Glad you've been enjoying it, hope you'll continue to do so.

ShadowedHand – well, I considered a Deus Ex Machina way out of things and decided in the end things would just have to follow their inevitable path to doom and destruction!!!!

snarkyroxy - /me covers Snape's tender ears….well you were kind of meant to laugh a bit at the last chapter, before the mega angst kicked in again!!!

Sakia Ishida – thank you! I'm not being very nice to my poor characters at the moment, but, they'll get over it. Maybe.

Read300300 – hehe, thanks so much. Umm, having a sense of my plot over the next few chapters, you'd better kept that virtual inhaler to hand!

Vyxagallanxchi – well on the bright side they've half-fixed it….at least no-one else will remember…. And maybe Snape will learn how to forgive…………??? Poor Snape…Harry is going to have to find a way to fix this….

Adenara Yatman – yeah, I think Harry is thinking sort of along those lines…

Silverthreads – Perhaps Voldemort has had a word with Murphy?

Beth5572 – thanks, Terri!

Lady Lynn – thanks! Um, this was a bit evil too, wasn't it?

XiaoGui – yes, caught and sussed out…poor Snapey…..someone will need to be very nice to him to make up for this….

Molly Morrison – I loved your solution. I think Snape might have preferred it to witnessing the memory, :- (

lucidity – nooo….as you spotted…there really wasn't a plausible way for this to go well!!


	26. Forgive Me

Granger.

She turned up on Saturday morning. I had forgotten we had an appointment. This was probably the natural consequence of trying my best to obliterate her and Potter from every last recess of my mind. Unfortunately I happened to be in my office catching up on some paperwork, so I was there when she appeared. As hiding under the desk would have been undignified, I had little choice but to admit to my presence.

She was nervous, which was irritating. (Of course, had she not been nervous, it would have been even more annoying.) But despite the remarkable improvement in her appearance over the years, she still reminded me of a chipmunk when she was agitated. I am not, in general, a fan of small furry animals – except cats, whom I admire for their supreme conviction that the universe does, in fact, revolve around them. Odd, I reflected, that I found this trait endearing in felines but utterly infuriating in Potters.

I raised an eyebrow at the girl.

"What is it, Miss Granger?"

I rather pointedly continued to sort through the papers on my desk. I would be surprised if she received any sense that she was actually welcome.

"We have an appointment this morning, Professor Snape," she said, very quietly.

"It is cancelled," I informed her. "Goodbye, Miss Granger."

"I wanted to bring you my most recent notes. I've found an interesting lead."

I refused to look up at her, but her voice was full of dogged courage. I flicked through my papers rather more quickly.

"We have nothing to discuss, Miss Granger," I said, even more sharply. "I believe I told you to leave."

"There's a reference to a variant tradition about Halbert and Taveon in the records of the Dubonnin people. I'm still trying to track it down. They were wiped out, you know, but some of their oral histories have been preserved."

"I am not interested, Miss Granger."

There was a long pause, during which I ignored her, and examined my papers. I could hear her shuffling. I began to assess which of my potions bottles were in easy reach, and could with only small inconvenience to myself be thrown at her bushy head.

"It was an accident, you know," she finally blurted out, all in a rush. "It really was a mistake. He feels so bad about it…"

Anger flooded my throat with bile.

"Goodbye, Miss Granger!"

"So, that's it then?" she continued rapidly, her breath shallow. "You don't care anymore if he dies?"

"Finally, Miss Granger," I commented sarcastically. "Seven years at Hogwarts, and at last you show some signs of _real_ intelligence."

I stared at the papers. They seemed less in focus than they should have been.

In my dreams, he always died. He lay on some desolate heath, spreadeagled like a child playing snow angels. The grass was thin and wiry, bone and sinew of the leached grey earth. His eyes were always open. He had lost his glasses, and the vacant green gaze accused the skies.

Blood spread around him like wings, torn and broken. In my dreams, he did not look peaceful.

He just looked dead.

I closed my eyes. "Goodbye, Miss Granger."

I did not look up. After a few moments, I heard the office door bang shut with rather more force than strictly necessary.

I had a lot of paperwork to get on with this morning, not to mention a potion to brew. I had neither time nor inclination to examine the notes she had flung on my desk before departing. Even washing my hair, I told myself determinedly, was higher on my list of priorities than _that_.

* * *

For Harry, the week dragged past. 

Snape wasn't talking to him.

He had attempted to accost him in the corridors, he had lain in wait outside his office, and he had tried knocking on the door of Snape's own chambers. In no case did Snape grant him more than the barest acknowledgement: such as Aunt Petunia bestowed on the neighbours down the street whom she considered too socially inferior even to patronise.

In Potions, Snape treated Harry as though he were invisible. Harry had even resorted to accidentally-on-purpose knocking over his bottle of Beatlejuice.

"Are you _trying_ to get a detention?" Hermione, next to him, had hissed in horror.

The answer, of course, was yes. Harry stayed behind, expectantly, at the end of class. But all this earned him was:

"Mr Potter will report to Mr Filch for detention on Wednesday at eight. Dismissed."

Snape had not even looked at him.

Harry stormed out of the classroom. The man was so stubborn. He wouldn't listen. He wouldn't even _try_ to see if Harry had a valid explanation. Harry wanted to hex something: badly.

So, it seemed providential when he bumped into Malfoy, who was returning to the Potions classroom because he had mislaid his favourite quill.

It took only the slightest sneer on Malfoy's part for Harry to join battle.

* * *

Malfoy and Potter. 

My lips thinned. I could hear them shouting at each other as I strode along the corridor.

"I warned you, Potter: you helped put my dad in Azkaban, and I'm not going to forget it! You just watch out!" Malfoy spat.

"Me? Maybe you'd better look out, Malfoy. Or maybe you'll be joining your dad in Azkaban."

"You don't know what you're talking about, Potter. My dad'll be out of there soon anyway. He has a lot of influence with the Ministry. That's what happens when you belong to a _proper_ wizarding family. People respect you."

I drew to a halt, robes swinging. It is so much easier to effect a dramatic entrance in wizarding robes, rather than the excessively close-fitting garments of Muggles.

The two combatants suddenly became aware of my presence, and whirled to face me. Malfoy's sharp features turned wary. Potter was flushed and angry. I smirked at the two of them, and took a lazy step forward.

"Family respect?" I intervened silkily. "Well, Potter wouldn't know about that. Would you, Potter? Potter grew up in a broom-cupboard, Mr Malfoy. His relatives were so ashamed of him they couldn't bear to let him out."

Malfoy hooted with derisive laughter. This was turning out even better than he had hoped.

"You're kidding, Professor! Potter gets locked in a cupboard when he goes home?"

"Yes," I continued, glancing at my victim. "Except when he is undertaking their household chores, of course. Or when they are beating him."

"They make him work like a house elf? And they _beat_ him?"

"Wouldn't you?"

Malfoy collapsed into hysterical giggles. I could just see Potter out of the corner of my eye. He was stricken. He looked white.

"Oy, Potter," Malfoy said gleefully. "Do they whip you? Does it leave marks? Can I see?"

I withdrew quietly up the corridor and continued to observe the two of them from the shadows. Potter finally spoke. His voice was shaking.

"Shut it, Malfoy. Just shut it. I mean it." He was pointing his wand at Malfoy with a trembling hand. His breath was heavy and fast.

"No way, Potter. I'm off back to the Common Room. I can't wait to tell everybody about this. The precious saviour of the wizarding world who can't even stand up to his Muggle relatives! It's priceless!"

Inadvertantly, I caught Potter's gaze. _Betrayal_, those eyes said. _Humiliation. How could you?_

Underneath my veneer of cold triumph, something twisted.

Malfoy ran past me, still crowing. Potter dashed at his eyes with an angry hand.

I sighed.

It occurred to me that Malfoy would, indeed, lose no time in telling the rest of the world the latest juicy gossip about the Boy Who Lived. That Skeeter woman would turn up. The _Daily Prophet _would run features. Dumbledore would be disappointed. The boy would probably receive sympathy parcels from half the Witching world.

As Malfoy dashed up the corridor, I came to a sudden decision. I pointed my wand at his back.

"_Obliviate_!" I murmured. During my less than illustrious career outside of Hogwarts, the ability to modify memories had been invaluable. I was highly trained in obliviation, as well as most of the other darker arts. The perfect Death Eater. The perfect spy.

The perfect traitor.

Malfoy stopped laughing, and shook his head, bemused. He clearly couldn't remember what he had been doing all alone on the way back from the Potions classroom. He glanced around in a puzzled way and then headed off in the direction of the Slytherin Common Room.

Potter's mouth had dropped open slightly.

I ignored him. A slight flush had risen to my cheeks. I span on my heel and stalked away.

* * *

Harry stared after Snape. What had that all been about? Snape had stopped Malfoy from remembering…a faint hope glimmered within him for a moment. Then, he recalled the utter disdain with which Snape had looked at him, and was cast once more back into gloom. 

The fact that this was a free afternoon, and that the Gryffindor team was scheduled for a double-length practice session, did not cheer him up.

Ron still wasn't talking to him. He did not remember the scene in the Common Room the previous Friday evening. But he had certainly recalled their quarrel earlier that same day. And since then, Harry had not felt like making any particular effort to repair the rift, despite Hermione's best efforts to mediate between the two of them.

Catching the tension between Ron and Harry, most of the team were cool towards him. They sided with their Quidditch captain.

Harry attended listlessly to Ron's training plan for the day. At least flying might take his mind off things, he thought. Then he remembered playing Sudden Death with Snape, and sank back into misery.

"Harry," Ginny said to him as Ron went to fetch the Quidditch balls. "What's wrong?"

Harry shrugged a shoulder, and kicked at a stone.

"I know you've argued with Ron," she continued, "but it's more than that, isn't it?"

Harry looked down at her. Her red hair was tied back from her face and he could see how serious and concerned she was.

"Yeah," he admitted. "Thanks, Ginny, but… I don't want to talk about it, OK?"

"Fine," she said. "But, if you do…"

"Thanks." He felt real gratitude. "Oh! Ginny… I forgot to ask.. have you been invited to the seventh year party next week? I don't mean as a date or anything, just…"

"I'm so flattered," Ginny said tartly, but with a sparkle of humour in her eyes. "I've already been asked, thanks. So's Luna, she's going with Neville."

"Oh, OK…" Harry felt a bit foolish now.

The team were kicking off. Harry joined them, and soared into the air. Below, Ron released the Bludgers.

Somehow Harry didn't think it was an accident when he threw one, hard, straight in his direction.

Harry dodged it, and began to fly in swooping circles around the team as they practised. He could see no sign of the Snitch. Ginny drove the Quaffle home, hard; Ron tried to Keep it but failed. Harry smiled, rather vindictively. Ron had never quite got over Ginny scoring against him in Quidditch practice.

Harry was engaged in another circling swoop, when his scar burst into painful life. He gasped, and wobbled on his broom, losing altitude. He clenched his teeth. He knew he really ought to tell Dumbledore about this…Voldemort must be up to something…it had been getting worse for days….

"Harry?" yelled Ginny, who was closest, zooming alongside.

"It's nothing," Harry muttered, one hand pressed to his forehead and his jaw set. "I'm fine."

Ron had flown over as well. His long face, initially anxious, hardened into censure when he saw that Harry was all right.

"Oh, scar's hurting now, is it?" he said roughly. "Well, if you're not fit to play, Harry, you'd better just go, all right?"

"I am fit to play," Harry insisted, although his scar was now throbbing intensely. _Occlumency_, he thought. Let it go…. Let the pain go…

"Huh. I mean it, Harry. I don't want you on the team if you're going to fall off your broom every time we go out on the pitch."

Ron glared at Harry and flew back to the rings. The rest of the team looked curiously at Harry for a few moments, until the next practice formation was underway.

Harry sighed. This day looked set to be just as entertaining as the one previously.

As he threw himself into a spectacular dive, he made a resolution.

He was going to talk to Snape later that day. Somehow. If he had to sit outside his chambers all evening and use a voice-amplifying charm in order to do it.

* * *

Potter. 

I tensed, cursing to myself. I had unthinkingly barked out a command to enter when the knock sounded on my office door. I was immersed in the papers on my desk, but even without looking up I knew it was him.

I did not acknowledge him. Now was about the time he normally went away, having hovered in front of me and attempted to elicit some sign that I was even aware of his presence.

This time, he did not.

"Professor," he said to me intensely. "Please let me explain."

I ran through the various hexes and charms with which I could have prevented him from doing so. They ranged from a simple silencing spell to total petrification. On the whole, I thought tiredly, it might be easier just to get this over with. Some say Gryffindors are steadfast in adversity. I say Gryffindors are more stubborn than a witch's pig.

He launched into some tangled narrative involving, obscurely, Quidditch. I did not listen very closely.

"Professor!" he said, finally. "I'm so sorry. Please, forgive me…"

_Forgive me_. Unbidden, a memory streamed to the surface of my mind. I must have been very young.

"I'm sorry, father," I was whispering. "I'm sorry, please, forgive me.."

That was before the beating, naturally. I really must have been very young, because I learned soon enough that forgiveness should be neither sought, nor granted. Forgiveness was for the weak.

Or the foolish: like Dumbledore.

I had, however, asked Dumbledore to forgive me, I remembered: just the once. It was the time I first crawled (almost literally) back from the darkness, and laid my impurity at his feet. "Oh, Severus," he had said to me, "my forgiveness will not help you. You need to learn to forgive yourself."

But there could be no forgiveness for what I had done, of course. Only payment. Only atonement.

I was so very tired. In my dream, the one where Potter died and died and died, I sank to my knees by his corpse and watched the Dark Mark fade from my arm. In my dream, I cried out; I wanted it back, for then Voldemort would not be dead, which meant Potter would not be dead, and I would not be kneeling in his blood that spread like wings with the dust of every fallen star there ever was clogging my lungs.

_Forgive me_, he was saying. _I am sorry_.

"Fine," I said wearily at last, not raising my head. I was so very, very tired. "You're sorry. Now get out of my office, Potter."

"But…" He sounded bewildered.

"Potter, I swear I will throw this jar of cockroaches at your head if you do not leave. Now."

He left.

Alone, I pulled my sleeve up my left forearm and stared for a long moment at the burning Mark.

It was just as Mad-Eye Moody had said. There are some spots that never do come off.

* * *

Angel 1291 – Thanks so much, glad you are enjoying it.

mon - Thanks lots! Well, Harry hasn't given up yet…

Sakia Ishida – thanks! Updating as fast as I can..this story is from very distracting from stuff I ought to be doing. Like work.

tomfeltatonofme – yep, Harry still has some work to do..

Vyxagallanxchi – poor Severus, indeed..too many emotions for him, I fear…he doesn't know how to handle them all at once!! I will try to convince my characters, lol, though they do seem to have quite definite ideas about where they want to go…and lots more Snape/Harry interaction coming up….

Ophite68 – hello, thank you very much, glad you like it!

ahappyjtm – hmm, I like the sound of fumigated Gryffindors. And virtual cheesecake? Even better!

Widow Black – thanks a lot for taking the trouble to review, it makes loads of difference to an author to feel appreciated!!!

we3 - /me checks the medicine cabinet. I already have asthma inhalers. I'll add aspirin.

Jasmine - thank you!! This story will be ostensibly friendship/mentor, although it could also be read as pre-slash. Harry will have to find other ways to warm his professor's heart…

MYSTICAL PANTHER – thanks a lot! Yes, poor Harry and Sev…sigh..

Alynna Lis Eachann – thank you! I'm glad you think it worked out well……..not irreparably was the aim! My initial version I think would have utterly ruined any possibility of Snape ever speaking to Harry again…..

lucidity – ah, poor Sev! He's all depressed now.

cdkobasiuk – thanks! It will take something drastic to work this one out I think… 

charl1e – well….not fixed yet.. but Harry (being stubborn as a witch's pig) hasn't given up yet, either…

Read300300 – lol, I'm glad I improved your day. And thanks very much for the Order of Merlin, First Class! Wow!

Persephone Lupin – You are most definitely too kind. But I'm certainly up for a bit of Sevy cuddling, only like you say I think we'll have to sedate him first. Maybe if he tried it, he might find he quite likes it…….

Lilith11 – Thanks so much for starting the translation, I'm really flattered. Yes, you're right, it never actually occurred to him not to trust Harry on that one. He knows Harry isn't malicious. And as for Voldemort, ah hah…next chapter…!

Someone - lol, yes I'm glad for Snape's sake that he doesn't care about Harry. Life would be so difficult for him otherwise!

Padawan Jan-AQ – no, Snape isn't feeling very forgiving…poor honey….

Lil Ole Me 97 – how could I resist the puppy eyes? Herewith the update…and thanks for the compliments!

Adenara Yatman – thank you very much - /me sweeps a bow, less impressively than Sevy's would be in his wizarding robes.

Madam Whitbrook – glad you like my Severus! I'm rather fond of him myself….

snarkyroxy – thanks very much, and yes, another update! Poor Snape, he doesn't know how to handle this at all….

Silverthreads – thanks very much…agony all round…

Lady Lynn – lol, thanks a lot!

XiaoGui – thanks very much indeed for your long and gratifying review!!! Yes, I do see Filch as Gollum-y, I was thinking of that when I wrote him…more angsty tidbits on the way…


	27. The Astronomy Tower

* * *

My sense of duty is probably my greatest virtue. Not, I reflected, that it had a great deal of competition. It was duty which led me to pay Dumbledore a visit. Once there, however, I found myself strangely reluctant to explain the problem. 

"Severus," sighed Dumbledore. "Will you please stop pacing about like that? You are wearing a track into my carpet. Come, sit down, have a cup of tea…."

"Tea? Tea? I don't want tea." I paused, then added grudgingly, "Thank you."

"What is the matter?" Dumbledore peered at me over his half-moon glasses. A half-smile lingered on his face. I can never see that particular smile without experiencing a desire to remove it. Preferably, with violence.

"Nothing," I grunted. I folded my arms across my chest to reinforce this point.

Dumbledore raised a patient eyebrow. "My dear Severus, I am always delighted to see you. But you are not in the habit of visiting me to discuss _nothing_."

"Potter," I growled after a pause during which I scowled ferociously at Dumbledore's phoenix. It was a pathetic mess of grey fledgling feathers at the moment. It must have had a Burning Day recently. However, I could have sworn the creature winked at me.

I seemed to recall that the thing was yet another member of Potter's misguided fan club. It had never shed a crystalline tear for _me_. However, I had also heard from some source or another that it was this phoenix who supplied Voldemort with the feather for his wand core. If that were true, it hardly testified to the bird's powers of taste and discrimination.

"Harry?" Dumbledore said, in suspiciously surprised tones. "Ah. Now, what is the problem? I thought you and he were getting along rather better since the summer."

"He needs more Occlumency lessons," I muttered. I gave Dumbledore a look which defied him to argue. "But I refuse to teach him."

Dumbledore's eyebrow performed again. "Now why is that? I really thought the lessons were going well this time."

I was unclear whether he was asking why Potter needed further Occlumency lessons, or why I was unwilling to provide them. I chose to interpret his query as the former. It was so much easier to answer.

"He has made progress," I conceded. "But…Voldemort is up to something, Albus. The Mark on my arm has been hurting constantly, for several days now. Potter is still a novice at Occlumency. If the Dark Lord makes a really sustained attack…"

"I see. You are worried that Harry will fall prey to him."

Only the ever present pain in my arm had finally convinced me, reluctantly, that I should alert Dumbledore to the danger potentially threatening Potter. I have, as I have said, a very strong sense of duty. It has caused me to save that boy's life on a number of occasions, regardless of my own finer feelings in the matter.

So, I glowered at Dumbledore and pointed this out to him. "I am not _worried_ about him. I do not _care_ about him."

"Of course not," Dumbledore murmured. He was half-smiling again. "I'm afraid I will have to ask you to continue the Occlumency lessons in that case, Severus. There does seem to be a continuing threat. Since – as you have stated - you are so indifferent to Harry, I am sure it will not be a problem for you…"

"Aren't you listening to me, Albus!" I snarled. "I do not want to teach the boy!"

"Has Harry upset you in some way?" Dumbledore asked gently.

"Upset me? How could he upset me? I have already told you, I do not care about the boy, so how could he upset me? He…annoys me."

"He annoys you. I see. Well, I fear I must ask you to control your irritation for a little longer. Come, now, you have been hiding your dislike of him very well these past several weeks…I am sure you can manage to cope with him for a while longer yet."

I ground my teeth.

"I will have a message sent to Harry," Dumbledore continued calmly. "After dinner, your rooms, shall we say? Yes, that would be best, I think. Best start tonight, if Voldemort is making a move to attack him. I myself, as you know, will be away on business for a couple of days…"

I gazed at him in mute horror.

"Albus…" My voice rose in a squawk.

"Was that a yes to the tea, Severus? A slice of lemon with it, perhaps?"

A sense of duty is a terrible thing. I was in debt to Dumbledore, for favours past. It was this sense of duty that – as so often – prevented me from attempting to hex that thoroughly infuriating smile off his benignly nodding face.

It was the same sense of duty, I reflected bitterly, that had landed me in Dumbledore's chambers and in this predicament in the first place.

* * *

Harry was not in the best of tempers. His scar hurt. Ron was still being completely unreasonable. _Snape_ was still being completely unreasonable. He had heard Harry's explanation. He had even acknowledged Harry's apology. But then he had just…dismissed him, as if he were of no account. And after everything Snape had said to Malfoy, as well: even though he had least obliviated the memory. That made them both even, in Harry's book. 

Harry was in the Gryffindor Common Room. They had just had lunch, and it was by far too wet, windy and cold to go outside for the remainder of break time. Harry, unwilling to enter into conversational niceties with anyone, was lurking on a window seat, hidden by a curtain. He supposed he should not have been surprised when he heard Ron and Hermione's voices from close by; it was the part of the room where all three of them normally sat.

They were talking about him, he realized with annoyance. He debated whether to show himself, or to remain hidden. Curiosity won. It wasn't as though he were actually _trying_ to eavesdrop on them…

"Look, Ron," Hermione was saying patiently. "I really don't think you're being very fair…"

"But he's been like this for months, Hermione!" Ron protested. "It's not just because of that stupid row last week...He's not been talking to me, not properly, for ages. After everything we've been through together! He insisted on moving into the attic at Headquarters so he didn't have to share a room with me. He's been shutting me out ever since. And he's always running off to see bloody Snape. Do you think he's gay?" Ron continued anxiously. "I mean, he does seem to have got this weird thing about Snape lately.."

"Oh really, Ron," said Hermione. "That doesn't mean he's gay. And so what if he is, anyway?"

"I don't mind him being _gay,_" Ron replied indignantly. "At least, as long he remembers that I'm not. I mind him going for _Snape_."

"You forget, Ron," Hermione said gently. "You've got five elder brothers, both parents, and an extended family. Harry hasn't got anyone but us since Sirius died. He needs more than that. Anyone would. It doesn't mean he doesn't want you as a friend anymore….And, you know, I think he's been affected worse than we realize by what his relatives did to him over the summer….and in any case, he's been really depressed….I think that's why he's been so withdrawn..."

Harry could bear this analysis of his situation no longer. As if he didn't spend enough of his life feeling like some kind of freak….

"Do you two MIND?" Harry said suddenly, pulling the curtain aside with a fierce jerk. "I CAN hear you, you know."

"Oh!"

Hermione and Ron's heads whipped around; their faces dropping as they realized that Harry had been sitting right behind them during the course of their conversation.

"Um, sorry, Harry," Hermione said in a controlled voice. "I didn't realize you were there. Well: you must have realized that, and listened anyway.... We're concerned, that's all…I just wish you and Ron would stop being so silly and talk to each other…"

Harry grunted.

"Look, mate," Ron began awkwardly after a difficult pause. "I didn't mean…. I mean...it's just that you…"

Hermione and Ron wore twin troubled expressions.

"Oh, don't let me interrupt you," Harry said to them gruffly. "You can carry on your conversation in peace. I'm off."

He stomped off. He didn't want Ron and Hermione to be friends with him because they felt _sorry_ for him.

He really wanted to be alone, he realized. He was so fed up with all of this. He couldn't find solitude in the Common Room or the library, he mused, people wandered in and out of there all day.

The façade of the castle with its jutting towers drifted into his head. The Astronomy Tower, he thought. No-one would ever think to look for him there. It was out of bounds to unaccompanied students. Harry set off with a burst of energy.

It was cold and windy at the top of the Tower. Harry leaned against the parapet and stared up at the sky. Bulbous dark clouds advanced in battle formation. There was going to be a storm, he thought.

He wrapped his robes more closely around him. He was chilled, but he didn't care. He was also going to miss class, but he didn't care about that either.

He had already been crouching at the top of the Tower for quite a while when the dull ache in his scar erupted into a flare of hot pain. It was as though his skull were being ripped apart.

Harry yelled, clutching his head, and writhing on the stone floor of the observatory platform. It hurt so much he could scarcely think, as if a chisel were being hammered into his brain. Dimly, he felt his body convulse as it remembered it needed to breathe. Harry fought for air, even as he wondered dizzily whether his head really was blown apart into scattered fragments.

Into this gaping hole, slank a creature with red eyes. Harry tried to yell again, and realized he could not. The creature, with its white snake-like face and flat nose, had imprisoned him in an embrace as strong as steel hawsers and about as comforting.

"Good afternoon, Harry Potter," a thin voice hissed in his head. It oozed glee.

* * *

The brat was late to the evening Occlumency lesson Dumbledore had so very thoughtfully arranged. Or perhaps he had decided not to come at all. It was an interesting dilemma: would I be more aggravated with the boy if he did turn up, or if he did not? Dimly, I recalled that he had been absent from the Gryffindor table at dinner. Doubtless he was sulking somewhere in a corner… 

I was exceedingly annoyed with Dumbledore's interference. It had been most public spirited of me, I thought self-righteously, to go and alert Dumbledore to the possible threat to Potter. See how he repaid me. I had _told_ him I wanted nothing more to do with the boy.

I wondered where he was. He was not usually more than a few moments late…

I pondered, tapping my fingers restlessly on the desk. Perhaps I should send a message up to the Gryffindor Common Room. Perhaps he had not received Dumbledore's message earlier that day.

The banging on my door interrupted my thoughts. Instantly, I was furious. So. Potter was just very late. How typical, that he thought he could waltz in here at any time he found convenient.

I wrenched the door open.

"_Yes_?" I barked.

It was Granger. With Weasley. Neither of them had ever had the gall to show up at my private rooms before. I drew myself up to my full height, and scowled down at them.

"To what," I inquired softly, "do I owe the – ah – pleasure?"

"Is Harry here?" Granger demanded. She sounded anxious.

"Potter? No," I informed her with something of a snap, "Although he is supposed to be here for a tutorial…The Headmaster sent a message…"

"Is that what it was?" Weasley interrupted. His long face was twisting anxiously. "He never got it…look…Colin Creevey left it on his bed for him, hours ago...he can't have been back to the Gryffindor Tower, because he hasn't picked it up…"

I took the parchment from Weasley's thrusting hand. Its seal was not broken. So. Potter had not received the message from Dumbledore telling him of our appointment.

"Are you sure he's not here?" Granger blurted out.

I looked at her with dislike. "Yes, Miss Granger. I am not inviting you in to check behind the sofa and under the beds, but I can assure you I am quite positive he is not here."

"Then he's missing," she stated flatly. She radiated tension and anxiety. Her bushy hair seemed to crackle with it.

Something of this communicated itself to me.

"Missing?" I said sharply. "Why would you assume he is missing, rather than simply indulging in a quite understandable urge to avoid your company?"

"No-one's seen him since just after lunch," Weasley said quietly. "We had Defence Against the Dark Arts this afternoon. He didn't turn up."

"Possibly Potter feels he knows more about the subject than the latest semi-competent the Headmaster has managed to persuade to take on the position," I sneered, rather waspishly. I had – yet again – offered to take up that job. I had – yet again – been denied it.

I began to feel rather uneasy, though, nevertheless. In fact, when I considered the matter, I had been feeling troubled all afternoon. I had put it down to the intensity of the pain in my arm, and the prospect of an evening spent with Potter. Last time I had experienced this nagging sense of unease, however, I recalled….Potter had locked himself in my spare bedroom, and….

"Where have you checked?" I asked sharply. I strode back into the room and donned some outer garments as I spoke. It was storming outside, and the Castle corridors breathed ice and damp.

"Everywhere," Granger said unhappily. "Common Room, library, Room of Requirement, empty classrooms, kitchens, Owlery…"

That meant little. Hogwarts was large and rambling. If somebody wanted to hide, there were any number of possibilities.

The Headmaster was away, visiting the Ministry in London. I thoroughly expected that the boy had just wandered off somewhere to be on his own. In which case, I thought grimly, when I found him I would throw him off the Castle parapets for causing me so much trouble.

Hmm…Intuition sparked. I did not know how I knew this, but I had a sudden strong sense of where he had gone.

"The Astronomy Tower," I said abruptly. "Have you checked the Astronomy Tower?"

"No!" Weasley said. He and Granger had to jog besides me to keep up as I swept along. "Wh – what do you think he might be doing up there? You - you don't think he's chucked himself off, do you?"

"Don't be silly, Ron," Granger whispered. "If he'd – if he'd done that someone would have found him by now."

"Don't be ridiculous, Weasley, Miss Granger," I said vehemently.

Nevertheless, the notion took hold. My strides grew longer and faster by the moment.

The images seeped, yet again, through my mind. _Spreadeagled and broken, green eyes blank and staring…_

No. I would know if…if he were dead.

And if he were not hurt when we found him, I would _definitely _throw him off the parapet, I thought. This was even worse than the evening lesson I had been steeling myself for. A grim anxiety was gnawing through my bones.

Inspired by my strong sense of duty: no doubt.

* * *

Harry struggled, but it was no use. His mind was overwhelmed by the force of the alien presence clutching at it. He was gripped mercilessly. Finally, he subsided, gasping and shuddering. 

"That's better," Voldemort said to him. He looked amused. His thin lips twitched.

Harry glanced wildly around. He didn't understand. Had Voldemort somehow managed to transport him away from Hogwarts? He was sitting, legs sprawled, in a stone courtyard. It was touched with silvered moonlight. There were rough-hewn pillars around the edges, and in the middle a marble fountain played. It was here that Voldemort stood, looking down at him with that triumphant smirk on his face.

"Where are we?" Harry demanded fiercely. His heart was pounding. He felt in the pocket of his robes – at least he still had his wand –

Voldemort chuckled. It was a grating noise, like the churring of a badly tuned machine. "We are in your head, dear boy."

"We're – what?" Harry stared around again. It did not look like he imagined the inside of his head to be.

"Yes. I have imprisoned you here in a Mind Matrix. It has taken me some time to devise a way to cast the spell through that scar of yours, which links us together in some manner. Sadly my attempts to find a way to use the spell on Severus through the Dark Mark on his arm have not, so far, borne fruit. However, as you see...with you, I have been successful... I have been waiting for the right moment to use it."

"Use it – for what?" Harry asked. _Keep him talking_, a part of his head was whispering. He had no idea what was happening, or how to get out of this situation, but as long as Voldemort was having a conversation with him he wasn't saying phrases Harry would rather not hear. Like _crucio_. Or _Avada Kedavra_…

"Why, to ensnare you of course. You are trapped inside your own mind. Your body lies where it fell, inanimate and useless. That Muggle-loving fool Dumbledore keeps you and my old friend Severus so close, even I would find it a challenge to attack your physical persons. This way, I do not need to…"

"What are you going to do?" Harry asked. His mouth felt incredibly dry. He did not know how this could be so, if he truly were inside his own head… was he just imagining himself in this form, in this place? If all of this was somehow just a projection of his own thoughts, could he manipulate the environment around him? His mind raced.

"Do?" Voldemort smiled again. Harry wished he wouldn't. It sent shivers trickling down his spine. "We are going to wait, my dear boy."

"Wait? Wh – what for?" Foreboding surged in Harry's stomach. What could Voldemort possibly be waiting for…

"The arrival of my dear old friend Severus, naturally." Voldemort's lips peeled off his teeth. "My informant tells me that Dumbledore is away. Severus is the only other person who has the skills to attempt to rescue you from the Mind Matrix. Poor Severus does seem to have a bit of a complex about rescuing you, doesn't he? I am sure he will swoop on the scene shortly, and do his best to save you…"

It was a trap! Harry stared at Voldemort in horror.

"Oh, don't look so panicked, dear boy," Voldemort said smoothly. "I cannot destroy you yet. No: you are quite safe for the moment. But – oh. I really wouldn't think of using your wand. For the inexperienced, such as you, using magic in a mindscape is rather – unpredictable. It has a tendency to backfire in strange ways."

Harry's hand nevertheless closed around the wand in his pocket. He felt safer that way.

"How can you kill me?" he asked huskily. "I – you're not really here!"

Voldemort shook his head sadly. "You know, I still fail to see all the fuss that is made about you. You do not have a fraction of my genius. It is a complete mystery how you come to have thwarted me on so many occasions…But not this time…no, not this time…To answer your question, ignorant child, of course I am really here. As are you. As will be my dear friend Severus very shortly. We are in your mindscape. I have imprisoned you here. We are both disconnected from our physical bodies, it is true. However, I assure you that when I destroy you in this plane of existence, you will be destroyed on the physical plane as well…"

Harry stared at Voldemort. What could he do? He could try to use magic…so what if it backfired because he didn't understand properly what he was doing…Voldemort was going to kill him eventually anyway…

Even as he thought this, he realized that Voldemort had drawn his own wand. He yelped in pain once more. Bindings were snaking all over his body before he could even attempt to move. They hurt, cutting deeply into his flesh at many points. _It's not real_, he tried to tell himself. _If this is all in your own mind, it's not real_…_so it can't really hurt..._

But whatever reality he was in, even if it was in some manner of his own making, it was unwilling to listen to him. The bindings dug into him, viciously. He laid his head miserably on the stone flagging. Would Snape try to come? And if he did..would Voldemort just kill him, too?

* * *

I yanked open the door leading outside to the observatory platform. The force of the wind struck me like a hammer, and I reeled backwards. Rain was flung against my face in sleeting buckets. 

I put my head down and surged outside. It was very dark. The seething clouds obscured the moon and stars. I lit my wand and blinked around me through the screeching gale and tipping rain.

Behind me, I heard Granger and Weasley gasp as the impact of the storm slammed into them. At the same moment, I spotted a black-robed form sprawled immobile against the parapet.

I leaped forward. He was so very still... my heart was pounding as furiously as the wind against my cheek.

He was absolutely frozen, and wet through. His flesh was glacial to the touch. He did not move when I ran my hand urgently across his face. It was slippery with rain.

"More light!" I snapped.

The pair crouched beside me responded instantly, pulling out their wands and sending splashes of white wand light through the darkness.

"He's not…oh, he's not..." I heard Granger whispering under her breath.

"Not yet," I said tensely. In the light of their wands, I prised open one of his eyes.

I recoiled, with a sharp exclamation.

"What?" Weasley asked. "What!"

"The Dark Lord," I said softly. "He has been taken by the Dark Lord..."

For Potter's eye had been wide and unseeing. The pupil was unnaturally dilated. And within it, burned a spark of red: a malevolent and burning coal in the green depths of his eye.

I gathered him to me with a harsh cry. His limbs dangled, and his head fell against my shoulder.

I was drowning in the rain, and the darkness, and the blasting wind. The storm shrieked around me. It put me forcibly in mind of a sound I had hoped never to hear again.

Voldemort's laugh.

* * *

SO MANY REVIEWS! smiles lots, and writes faster..... 

AMANDA - dying of anticipation? No, no, don't do that – see I have updated –

emma20 - thank you! Ah, Snape's a sweety deep down…very deep down…

Jaws - thanks, another update herewith….

Adenara Yatman – LOL, ok, so here's poor old Harry tortured and miserable yet again….

Cdk – aw, thanks…glad you liked it…

Padawan Jan-AQ – thank you…poor Snape just doesn't know how to handle so many strong, complex and contradictory emotions all at once. Much easier to throw a bottle of cockroaches….

2004-11-02

AnotherReader - glad you're liking it…go easy on that Pollyanna, it's dangerous.

acciodanrad9 – oh I like your name, I think I will be Acciosnape in future. (smiles at the blissful vision.) Yeah, Ron, he's just not very perceptive, is all….

Amethyst Rain - see? Mouldy Voldie action. That torrent of forgiveness may just get unlocked..Shall I make him say it? smirks. Thank you for the tea, scones and jam. I'm glad you specified that they were the nice ones not the dry ones…

charl1e – and, er, yes, more angst….!

NitaPotter –wow, thanks. Aw, poor Snape..maybe he will redeem himself in your eyes if he manages to rescue Harry from the current dilemma!!

Meggplant ) - thanks very much! Yep, all that and now Voldy too!! Re the baby DEs ..maybe they are biding their time…Hermione thinks Malfoy is keeping his options open. Ron thinks Malfoy is is waiting for Voldy's instructions. At the moment, I think Voldy just likes having informants in Hogwarts and doesn't want to spoil his last connections there…

velze – oh, sorry you found it less entertaining….it was sort of meant to be sad… I think my reasoning was that Harry gave up because he was bewildered; he'd said sorry…Snape acknowledged the apology…having a warm and generous heart himself, Harry didn't understand why Snape was still so cold. (And basically, I think Snape just has huge problems with emotions and needs really traumatic events to get him to admit to them…) Anyway, that's why I wrote it that way in my little worldview!

ahappyjtm – wow! Yellow roses! My favourite, how lovely!

Fortissimo – thank you. /me hands you the Kleenex.

Lil Ole Me 97 – thanks a lot!

hyouden-07 – poor Harry is just clutching at the straw that Snape did obliviate Malfoy…but yes, it was very mean of Snape…maybe he'll redeem himself in the current crisis???

Persephone Lupin – re Hermione's findings, probably next chapter or so…other things on mind at the moment…

Read300300 – thank you, thank you….

mon - getting there…slowly….

curlybean - thank you! Glad you like it…yes, Snape doesn't know what to do with his feelings basically!!! /me smiles: a bit of love and happiness may well follow the angst…..

Beth5572 – thanks, as ever!

Jicky – hi, thanks a lot!! Um, this story won't include more intimate scenes…at least not of the type I think you mean…grins. The relationship will be more mentor/guardian. Yes, poor sad Harry: he's having a really bad patch…he needs someone to take care of him…

Oya – hehehe, yes, Severus keeps getting overcome by his hidden softness….

Lilith11 - /me hands you a box of chocolates. Yep, Voldie has a specific target or two in mind…

missjackiesparrow, aka, tomefeltatonofme – lol, glad you like it, and hope you enjoyed Halloween. Did you make lots of money from your sisters??

Alynna Lis Eachann – hopefully this chapter has explained a bit why Ron is so aggrieved…lol yes, Snape is getting soft. In a well hidden kind of way.

monica85 – sighs, I'm afraid it takes drastic measures to get our Severus to admit to kindly emotions…

Caryla – thanks! Glad you like it..this won't be slash, just mentor/guardian…could be seen as pre-slash by those who think the relationship should develop that way!

rosiegirl – thank you! Will take a bit more work for both of them, but…

lucidity – poor Severus, indeed, he is confused! He's having emotions! And they contradict!

Vyxagallanxchi – Thanks….Yes, I think Dumbledore is right: Severus needs to learn to forgive himself….I saw that dream very vividly when I was writing, I'm glad it came over that way. I think a crisis situation might cut through some of Snape's stubbornness about Harry…

ShadowedHand – Snape is thawing, don't worry…but I think only drastic situations really get him to admit how much he cares… 

XiaoGui – lol, thanks! NB this is not the big showdown…more angst, though….what will Voldy do to Severus when he gets hold of him..?

Angel 1291 – thanks very much! Snape just couldn't resist the chance to be mean, but just couldn't quite go through with it… 

Silverthreads – hello, thanks…glad you found that interesting…I sort of see Snape as entrapped by his own past and difficult personality, so he is very re-active in certain circumstances..


	28. Mind Matrix

**_Warnings_: **some Voldy torture, but not more graphic in detail than GoF or OoTP.

* * *

I clutched Potter to me, while the wind and the rain beat against us both. Staggering slightly, I lurched back inside the Tower. Weasley and Granger followed; it took their combined efforts to wrench the door shut behind us. 

After the raging of the storm, the Tower seemed deathly quiet. Our ragged breathing echoed in the shadowy stairwell. I muttered a spell to make Potter lighter – even though, I noted, he was still too skinny anyway - and began to descend with as much haste as possible. Potter lay, utterly limp, in my arms.

Weasley and Granger trotted at my heels. I could hear their urgent enquiries, but I ignored them. A desperate tightness gripped my chest.

I took him to the infirmary, because it was closest.

"POPPY!" I bellowed, as I burst into the ward.

She emerged, blinking, from a side-door.

"Severus? – Oh my, Harry Potter, _again_… what has he been doing now… Lay him here, Severus, let me have a look…"

"It's no use, Poppy," I told her harshly. "He's been taken by Voldemort…I suspect through a Mind Matrix.."

She gasped, and her hands momentarily ceased in their examination of Potter's inert form.

"Oh no…and Albus is away…"

"Exactly," I said grimly.

Weasley and Granger were standing beside me, watching anxiously.

"Out, all of you!" Poppy snapped imperatively. "First things first, the boy needs to be warm and dry… out!"

As she spoke, she waved her wand, and curtains swished closed around Potter's bed. I found myself standing helplessly on the outside with Granger and Weasley. I had always resented the way Poppy Pomfrey shooed me about in her infirmary as though I were a stray chicken.

"Professor?" Granger whispered. "Please… what is happening?"

I began to pace. It says much for my state of mind that I preferred conversing with Granger and Weasley to the turmoil of my own thoughts.

"The Dark Lord seems to have enchanted Potter through his scar," I informed them tersely. "From the looks of it, I think he has imprisoned him in a Mind Matrix."

"What's that?" Weasley demanded. He looked scared. As well he might.

"It is a spell which traps somebody in their mindscape." My patience was, as ever, impressive.

"But..why?" Weasley asked. "What's he done it for? Can't we just break the spell?"

I rolled my eyes. What would the Dark Lord want to attack Potter for? Had Weasley not been paying attention for the last six or seven years? "Oh yes, of course we can just break the spell," I snapped at him waspishly. "That is precisely why we are standing around here choosing not to do so…"

It is very difficult both to cast and to break a Mind Matrix spell. I am a wizard of some power, but I thought it probable that only Dumbledore would really stand any chance of managing to counter one of Voldemort's making.

Granger's eyes had filled with dread. "He's using him in some way, isn't he?" she said quietly, directly to me. "Voldemort. He's not just cast the spell. He's got into Harry's mind..He wants something.."

I could think of at least three things the Dark Lord might want, which he could reasonably hope to achieve through this stratagem.

Knowledge: probably of the Prophecy. To his fury, Voldemort remained ignorant of all but its opening phrases; the bartender had removed the eavesdropper from the Hog's Head before he could hear more than half what Trelawney had said. Really, it was a pity Trelawney had not been more widely known. Then nobody would have bothered to listen to anything at all that came out of her mouth.

Potter's death. Not knowing the Prophecy in full, Voldemort undoubtedly sought to eliminate the threat Potter posed to him. He did not know that not only his and Potter's lives, but also their deaths, were intimately intertwined.

And me. Merlin knew, the Dark Lord would like to get his hands on me. Traitor. Spy. It could hardly be coincidence that this had happened when Dumbledore was away. The Dark Lord's own spies had undoubtedly informed him of the Headmaster's absence. As Voldemort well knew, I was one of the few other wizards available who was skilled in mind magics.

Potter's death, knowledge of the prophecy, and me: the odds looked promising for the Dark Lord to acquire all three of these things this evening.

* * *

Harry's bonds dug him into painfully. He shifted on the stone courtyard, trying unavailingly to find a more comfortable position. A long while seemed to have passed. 

Voldemort was becoming impatient. The red slits of his eyes flared menacingly.

"Boy!" he hissed. "What is happening? I do not believe Dumbledore's minions would make no attempt to rescue their precious Harry Potter. Why are they delaying?"

Harry hesitated. He could not see, though, how answering would make his situation any worse.

"I was on my own," he told Voldemort. He worked hard at keeping his voice reasonably steady, but it still sounded wobbly to his ears. "I went up the Astronomy Tower at lunchtime; nobody goes there, and nobody would know that was where I was…It would be a while before anyone realized to look for me."

"Why must you always thwart me!" Voldemort's voice was cold with anger. "I have already wasted an entire day, sitting here watching _you_…Must I waste the whole night as well?"

Harry did not feel it would be tactful to point out that, as far as he was concerned, Voldemort could leave and get on with his other business just about any time he wanted to.

"Or perhaps you lie…" Voldemort mused. "Do you lie, Mr Potter? It is difficult to tell, here in your own mindscape…Perhaps your friends are simply waiting until they can fetch Dumbledore…Perhaps they think they can just hold on until then…."

Harry said nothing. He had no idea whether anyone had even found his body yet, let alone what steps people might take once they had done so. His awareness of time was a little hazy, but he guessed it must be well after dinner. He had been in this mess for hours. His constricted limbs ached dreadfully.

"I think," Voldemort said, in a suave voice that made Harry feel, if possible, even more nervous, "that we had better encourage your friends to come and help you…at once..."

Harry struggled instinctively in his ropes. He did not know what Voldemort was about to do. But he had a very strong sense that he was not going to like it.

* * *

The silence was tense. While Poppy tended to Potter's physical needs, I was thinking furiously. 

I had sent Dumbledore an urgent message, but I knew the nature of his business: it would take some time for him to receive it, and more time again until he was in a position to respond to it. Still; he would undoubtedly come just as soon as he could.

We could just wait…wait until Dumbledore returned. In the mean time….

At that point, Potter screamed. It was a high sound of terror and pain that twisted horribly through the quietness of the ward.

I threw myself forward, and wrenched the curtains aside. Potter's unconscious form was juddering and twitching on the bed in obvious extreme pain. It was like watching a puppet having its strings violently jerked.

"_Poppy!"_ I snarled. "_What's going on?" _

She was moving her hands frantically in an effort to still Potter's body. She muttered a charm I recognized as one to calm the heartrate. Potter continued to twitch obscenely. Finally, the convulsions ceased.

"His vital signs are all over the place," Poppy told me tensely. She looked very worried. "Whatever just happened, it put immense strain on his systems."

"What are you telling me, Poppy?" I ground out, even though I thought I already knew.

"If that happens often, or for too long…his body will not be able to cope with the stress," she informed me.

"It is Voldemort," I told her quietly, with sudden certainty. "He is warning us. He will kill Potter unless we make an immediate move to prevent it."

"But – how?" Poppy asked. "A Mind Matrix, Severus! Put in place by the Dark Lord! How are we supposed to break it without Albus here?"

I regarded Potter's small, still body. He was very white. His hand fell down over the side of the bed. I picked it up, and lay it on his chest. As I did so, I encountered a burning heat.

The Fireheart I had given him for his birthday. The stone was blazing fiercely. I laid it carefully outside his robes, so it could not burn his skin so easily.

"I will enter the Matrix myself," I found myself telling Poppy. "And see if I can at least hold Voldemort off until Dumbledore arrives. At the very least, he can never resist showing off once he has an audience..."

"Oh dear me, dear me…Severus, the _risk_!"

"Yes. I know." I was short with her. I was not precisely thrilled by the prospect myself. It contradicted my deeply ingrained Slytherin sense of self-preservation. However, I saw no alternative. While I did not think I could break the Matrix, I did know how to operate magically within a mindscape. Dumbledore would be most disappointed if I simply sat here and watched the boy die...

I took Potter's hand in mine again. Perhaps the physical connection would help me reach him.

"Severus, my dear, are you sure..?"

"Yes."

I lay forward so my head rested on the bed. My hand was still entwined with Potter's. It felt small and cold in my own.

I took a deep breath. And began the incantation.

* * *

"So," Voldemort said. "Let us give your friends something to think about…" 

Harry watched in fearful anticipation as Voldemort raised a hand and pointed it in his direction. It slashed towards him, and a white light leapt from Voldemort's fingers.

Harry screamed, and contorted in his bindings. It seemed to go on for an eternity. He was so dazed, he did not know how long. Finally, he lay, panting, heart racing, while his shuddering body recovered from the blast.

Very slowly, it seemed to him, his wits began to gather. He became aware once more of the chill roughness of the paving stone beneath his face. He blinked. Voldemort was watching him lazily, with every sign of deep satisfaction.

It was minutes later, only minutes, that Harry heard footsteps echoing along the stone passages behind him.

He could not see, he was facing in the wrong direction, but he had no doubt to whom those measured footfalls belonged.

Snape.

It was Snape.

Harry's heart leapt again in a welter of conflicting emotions. He could not entirely quash a sense of hope and relief: Snape had always managed to rescue him before, surely he would do so this time as well? At the same time, an awful fear choked him. Voldemort had done this deliberately in order to lure Snape into his clutches. This could well be the end for both of them.

Voldemort had seen Snape as well. He inclined his head as though greeting a respected evening caller.

"Why, Severus. At last, you have come to see me… it has been so long…"

"Indeed. No doubt you have missed me." Snape's voice was dry.

"But of course, Severus, how could I not? And not only I….Mr Malfoy has been quite distraught to hear of your….defection."

"One would think Lucius had other matters to worry about at present. I doubt he finds his new abode quite to the standards of Malfoy Manor."

"I dare say. I confess, I was quite…irritated… to lose Lucius' services. That was thanks to Mr Potter here. Never mind, never mind. Harry will make suitable recompense. When he is dying slowly at my feet, I will consider the debt in some measure repaid."

Snape made no reply. Voldemort smiled, that terrible thin curling of the lips which made Harry's flesh crawl, and took a step forward.

"What, Severus? No dramatic exclamations? No 'over my dead body' or any such foolish pronouncements?"

"No. As you say, such declarations would be pointless folly."

"So blunt, Severus. You used to call me 'Master…'"

"No longer." Snape's voice was very quiet.

"I think…" said Voldemort in a tone dripping with triumph and pleasure, "I think you are going to discover you are mistaken there."

Harry was bracing himself even as Voldemort's laugh shrilled out. The burst of pain was even worse than the previous time. He knew he was shrieking and crying out, but was powerless to stop himself. At last he lay, a puddle of agony, vaguely aware that he was moaning. His own helplessness infuriated him.

"You see, Severus? You can stop this. Drop to your knees in front of me. Put down your wand. And ask me nicely. Ask your Master nicely to stop this."

Harry had barely finished panting and twitching when the next curse hit him. He convulsed. He could hear screams echoing around the courtyard; he supposed they must be coming from him, but all he was conscious of was the torrent of pain searing along his nerves.

And then, as it subsided, Snape's voice as he had never heard it before.

"Stop it. Stop it….. Master."

"On your knees before me, I said, Severus."

Harry opened his eyes. Blearily, he saw that Snape had entered his field of vision. He was kneeling at Voldemort's feet. He had laid down his wand. Harry felt a pang of anguish quite different in kind from what Voldemort had just inflicted on him, but just as powerful. He had never thought to see Snape beg.

"Stop it. Please. Master."

"That is much better, Severus. Now we have established that, let us turn to some matters I wish to discuss. This prophecy. I am sure your trusted friend Dumbledore has confided its content to you, no?"

"Dumbledore has never told me the wording of the prophecy."

"Now, were it anyone but you, I would believe I could read the truth of that statement in your mind. But with you, even I hesitate to make such a claim…there is no-one else, no-one, who has lied to me so successfully and for so long. I take that rather personally, as it happens."

"Nevertheless, it is the truth." Snape's voice was thick and hoarse. "Dumbledore has never told me the wording of the prophecy."

"Hmm. Well, let's see, shall we? _Crucio_."

Harry watched in horror. It went on for such a long while. Worst of all was the noise Snape was making. If only he could block his ears… This was because of him. Snape was here on his account. Surely, surely, there had to be something he could do..and who cared about the prophecy anyway? Voldemort was going to kill him, Harry had no doubt about that, but maybe Snape would have a chance to get away if Harry agreed to reveal the prophecy.

"I'll tell you!" he called suddenly. "Leave him alone..I'll tell you…"

Snape's body flopped, released from the curse.

"Potter, _no_." His voice was a harsh whisper, but Harry heard it anyway.

"I'll tell you if you let him go," Harry said firmly.

Voldemort was laughing again.

"But this is wonderful. You are each prepared to suffer for the other! Severus, I thought your obsession with protecting Potter came from the fact his father, whom you loathed so much, had to go and save your life…clearly you have actually developed feelings for the boy, and he for you... How…touching…."

Harry's heart, yet again, contracted.

* * *

My resistance to the _Cruciatus_ curse had weakened over the years. Nevertheless, I managed to hiss out, "Potter, _no_". 

The stupid boy was going to ignore me, though, I could tell. Idiot. Foolish, Gryffindor, noble _idiot_…

Not that I could talk, I thought bitterly. My plan, such as it was, had failed miserably. I was not supposed to be here, without my wand, suffering under _Cruciatus_. I had without question surpassed myself this time. Association with Gryffindors must be sapping me of all critical judgement.

But I did at least know that Voldemort must not hear the prophecy. If he did, he would know his own death and Potter's were linked. Potter would be safe from death at Voldemort's own hands, oh yes; no doubt. But Voldemort would know all he had to do was get somebody _else_ to kill Potter, and the last known threat to him would be obliterated. He could look forward to supreme rule. For however many ages his unnatural existence would extend for.

"Potter," I tried again. "Do _not_ tell him."

With a casual flick, Voldemort put me back under the curse, and yet again, the world dissolved.

Granted, I thought dourly, in one respect my tactics were working. He was having too much fun playing with us to go for the kill. Dumbledore could turn up at any point…_now_ would be good, I thought heavily, groaning and coughing yet again.

"I said LEAVE HIM ALONE!" Potter was shouting, furiously.

"Or what?" Voldemort asked in amusement. "My dear boy, you are bound hand and foot; even if you could get at your wand, you would not be able to make it function properly. What are intending to do? Oh, such a brave little Gryffindor…"

An idea struck me. It was possible…yes, after all, it was possible.. I would not dare try it myself, but wild magic was rooted in the emotions, and Merlin knew, Potter had enough of _those_.

"All…the Gryffindors…have fire in their hearts…" I wheezed. It was as near to a hint as I dared.

"What is this, Severus? You have betrayed not only me but Salazar Slytherin himself? Are you planning on taking up Minerva McGonagall's job as Head of Gryffindor? I am shocked. Shocked. Oh, yes…and - ah - …._Crucio_."

* * *

Harry watched yet again in a rising tide of fury as Snape thrashed and screamed. He wished he could blast Voldemort where he stood, laughing and laughing and laughing…but he couldn't get his wand… 

No wand, he was wandless .. wandless magic…what had Snape said, now?  Fire in the heart…

Harry's breath sucked in. He could only try..Very carefully, with great concentration, he thought of his Fireheart stone. It would be blazing now, he was quite sure. The blue and purple flames would be writhing in its heart. He imagined pouring into the stone all his fury, his magic, his energy…

Would it work? Harry hesitated. He felt as though his whole body were bursting with some wild force. What should he do now?

Snape made a bubbling noise of pain. Harry's rage surged suddenly, fiercely.  He could feel it crackling around him, almost tangible. With every ounce of his willpower, he hurled it at Voldemort's smirking form.

Harry gasped. His fury, channelled through the Fireheart, manifested as a great sheet of green-white flame. It exploded towards Voldemort with a dull roar.

Voldemort's robes caught fire. Harry's eyes were dazzled by the blaze, but he could see Voldemort shrieking in pain and fury as the conflagration consumed him.

And then he was gone.

Harry stared incredulously. He realized that Voldemort's bindings had disappeared from around him as well. He had been tied up for so long that he could barely move, but he managed to crawl across the courtyard towards Snape.

"Pr..professor," Harry managed. "Are you..ok?"

"Yes." Snape said after a pause, although his voice was ragged and rough. His body still jerked in the aftermath of the curse.

"Voldemort…is he…dead..?"

"No." Snape swallowed, groaned, and rolled over so he was facing Harry. "He has just fled back to his own body."

"Oh…Why haven't we…?"

"Voldemort has left us, but the Mind Matrix spell holds," Snape rasped out. "We are still in your mindscape."

Harry looked at him worriedly. Snape was ghastly white. Voldemort had kept him under the curse for such a long time…Harry crawled to the fountain, and wet his robes. Then he returned and began, tentatively, to bathe Snape's face. Snape's black eyes snapped indignantly at him for a moment, then he seemed to give in. He gave a groaning sigh, closed his eyes, and allowed Harry to continue his ministrations.

* * *

I lay weakly on the flagstones. This had all been a Very Bad Idea. Every move I had made this night seemed singularly lacking in basic common sense. Clearly, I was sickening for something. 

However, Potter did seem to have managed to expel the Dark Lord from his mind. That was, obviously, to be counted on the plus side of the equation. He also seemed to be pretty much in one piece, which had of course been the object of the ill-conceived exercise.

On the negative side, the Mind Matrix spell still held. I was trapped here with Potter inside his head, I hurt abominably, and I was embarrassed my own ineffectiveness. I wished Dumbledore would hurry up.

In the meantime, Potter's inexpert daubing at my face was actually rather soothing. None of my fellow Death Eaters had ever done as much for me. I allowed myself to smile at him slightly.

And so, here I was; in Potter's mindscape. I just hoped that Dumbledore would arrive on the scene before Potter's Inner Child.

* * *

juliedecarson – ah, I want to huggle them too…. I wish! 

hyouden-07 – thanks! Kip  - glad you liked it..what's "The Cell?" though?? Does it have a Mind Matrix concept? I've seen similar ideas in lots of places…

barenakedally – poor Harry! Dark lord crawling around his mind, yech!

Vyxagallanxchi – Sevy is my favourite character, and I love writing him. He's turning into a Gryffindor, though, charging off like that to the rescue….

Sakia Ishida – thank you!

Reading Manic  - heavens, I'm not sure I should be encouraging an addiction, lol…

wolfawaken – "NO." lol, that's pretty much what Snape thought I think.

Pleione – Evil cliffie last chapter I know….which from my POV makes it a good place to leave it!! Hehe.fanficaholic  - hi, glad you're enjoying it!

Adenara Yatman – lol, bad Harry..he'd just do anything to irritate Severus…

ShadowedHand – thank you…glad you liked it.

cdkobasiuk – ooh, that's a compliment!

Kristine Thorne – wow, thanks so very much.

Persephone Lupin – lol, here's a calming draught…Voldy's gone for now..all better…for now.

lucidity – Aww, Severus is sweet, yes he is! Kind of.

Read300300 – lol, thank you so much. And I hope the teeth and lips are feeling better. Poor you.

Jaws  - aww, cliffies are good! Anyway here's your update!

MYSTICAL PANTHER – eep, I didn't realize writing fanfic would be so dangerous!!! Lol

missjackiesparrow – hehehe, I will try to keep you away from death's door then. Here's an update!

Oya – lol, Harry hasn't read X-men comics. Maybe he should. Or maybe I should. I've seen a number of similar ideas though.

charl1e – Voldy's back, and gone, but he'll be back again…

velze – thanks very much, glad you liked it.

amber.moora – thanks lots, even if you did miss sleep, lol.

Jicky – poor Sevy, he just can't seem to help taking care of Harry. Even when he doesn't want to!

Lilith11 – herewith the answers to your questions…Snape was indeed foolish enough to try it.. Awww.

Amanda  - /me sends Madam Pomfrey around. And thank you very much indeed for your rosiegirl – thanks very much!

crookshanks87 – ooh, glad you liked it.

Alynna Lis Eachann – thanks..I like storms….

snarkyroxy – lol, it would be nice to get an award!!! Well the Mind Matrix as such is my idea but there's lots of similar ones around the concept of a mindscape…I read too much…

acciodanrad9 – Thank you…poor Harry and Snape…

XiaoGui – ah, poor Sevy. Maybe I'd better send Madam Pomfrey round to you as well, she's doing the rounds…

Padawan Jan-AQ – thank you…as you see, dear Sevy actually walked into the trap!! Bless.


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